Winter's Thaw
by AGameOfFanfic
Summary: The Queen in the North is reunited with her long lost husband after five years apart when he returns at the side of the new Targaryen conqueror. Sansa/Tyrion. M for graphic violence, later mature romance. Post ADWD. Mostly book canon, but some show influence. And yes, Sansa should have been Queen in the North. Fight me. / On Hold while I work on "If only, if only".
1. Sansa I: Banner of Black, Banner of Red

**Author's Introduction: Hello! I'm new to fanfiction and this is my first piece. I usually only write original stuff, but I've had a simultaneous writer's block for my original work as well as a recent all-consuming, soul-crushing obsession with everything Sanrion, so, this happened. I don't have this planned out, but after writing one chapter, I'm kind of obsessed with it. I thought this would ease my feelings, but, oh no, it made everything about 1000001% worse, so, yeah. Anyway, this is up, and I'm working on the second chapter now. Let me know what you think. No beta reader, so if there are any mistakes, kindly point them out. I'm kind of OCD, so I'd really appreciate it instead of finding a published mistake six months later and the ensuing inevitable anxiety that would bring.**

 **As for the world of this story: Most of the canon of this story is derived from the books, not the TV show (a la Sansa never married/was abused by Ramsay. Like, wtf D &D?!). That said, I adore the TV show (most of the time), and especially Peter Dinklage and Sophie Turner's portrayals of my two favorite characters, so there will be references to moments that perhaps happened in the TV show but not necessarily in the books (walks in the gardens, handing him the chalice, "Your mother would want you to carry on," etc.). Also original backstory/flashbacks that I think are in keeping with canon/characterization because feelings, so, fight me. They were canonically married for months and we got a grand total of two TV scenes between their marriage and day of separation, and only a few scenes about badly cooked pease in the books. Not cool. So, I've improvised. All of this is post-ADWD. On things where the show has surpassed the books (get it together GRRM!), I accept the events of the show as canon (e.g. Jon Snow's fate, Stannis vs Ramsay, etc.), so be warned that there *are* s6 spoilers in here. If my predictions end up wrong by the end of the 6th season here in a few weeks but my story is still, possibly, canon-viable, I'll update it to reflect that. Won't really explain more because (I hope) my writing should speak for itself.**

 **Enjoy!**

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 _Chapter 1_

 _Sansa I: Banner of Black, Banner of Red_

The winds were mercifully gentle on her fair skin as Lady Sansa of House Stark, Queen of the North, waited on horseback for the encroaching army of the Dragon Queen to arrive from the east. She looked to her left to the Wall. The skies were clear today, and in the crisp winter sun she could see the black, pinprick silhouettes of the watchers on the wall looking down. _They should be looking North, not South_ , she wanted to tell her half-brother, Jon Snow, who sat horseback to her right and had command of her armies, but she could hardly blame the men. It was daytime, and an attack by the Others was unlikely at this time; she could only imagine that watching from above a host of 50,000 marching from miles away, a procession like a great black centipede winding along the base of the Wall, shadowed by three large, menacing specks in the sky, was vastly more intriguing than staring North at the same wild scape beyond the wall, changed only by weather and shadow.

To Sansa's left sat her cousin Robert Arryn, Lord of the Vale. Today was a relatively mild day for a Northern Winter, but her cousin was bundled and bulked in layers and cloaks to twice his scrawny size, with a scarf wrapped round his head even under the hood of his cloak. He was a frail thing, but stronger than anyone had suspected. Many had expected him to die soon after his mother, Sansa's Aunt Lysa, died, but he lingered. He had even been bedridden for a while, with no one to keep him company but his favorite cousin Sansa. But eventually, Sansa realized it was boredom that trod down his spirits more than anything. His mother had been his world, his only companion. When she died, he'd lost everything, everything but Sansa, and his title. She'd convinced their then-guardian, Petyr Baelish, to allow him to play with boys his own age (most a bit younger, though), and eventually he made a good recovery. With Sansa's encouragement, he grew from the sickly, childish thing his mother had always allowed him to be and grew to be something of a proper little lord, if still weaker than he should be.

And Sansa would forever thank the gods she'd made the efforts that she did, when she did. It was three years ago that her brother Jon had sent a raven with word of Ramsay Bolton's menacing letter to the Vale, with the added message:

 _I know I'm only a bastard, Lord Arryn, and I'm not related to you by blood, but I urge you to come to the aid of Winterfell. Ramsay Bolton has your cousin Rickon, your cousin by blood, one of the last remaining members of your blood family left. I have an army of Wildlings who owe me their lives, and I intend to march south with them to free my brother, and I've called upon the Northern bannermen still loyal to House Stark over House Bolton to converge at Winterfell, but only with your Knights of the Vale can victory be assured. Please, if you have any fondness for your mother's kin, rally your bannermen and march north to meet us in the field of battle._

 _Regards,_

 _Jon Snow, son of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell_

 _Former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch_

Jon had had no idea Sansa was there, but reading her half-brother's words for the first time in five years brought her heart to bursting with joyful warmth. Even with the ominous words that Rickon was in the hands of the legitimized bastard Lord of the Flayed Man, it was proof that Jon was alive, even that Rickon was alive. That Robert wasn't her only family left—that her wolf's blood wasn't the last of its kind.

Sansa had asked Petyr to let her make the case to Robert, and he'd granted it to her. With his leers and grins as he watched her bloom from a thirteen year old girl when she arrived in the Vale to a young woman of five and ten at the arrival of Jon's raven, he did much for her, more than she would have liked. He'd stolen a kiss from her that day, but she pushed the memory from her mind. He was dead and gone and would never kiss her again—she'd made sure of that.

That night, after much deliberating over the soft but pleading words she'd use, she broached the subject with Robert after he'd happily eaten his share of dessert sweets and hers, as she'd given them to him when asked. "Robert, you're so sweet to me. You take care of me here, and I take care of you. I think of us as brother and sister, don't you?"

"Of course I do," he'd said.

"I'd do anything for you, to keep you safe, you know that, don't you?"

"Of course I do, Sansa. But you are safe. We're all safe here in the Vale. No one can touch us here."

Even though they'd left the notoriously impregnable Eyrie behind as the first winter snows had descended upon them, he still felt invincible in his lands, surrounded by his men. The last of his childish tendencies to be quashed before Sansa made a good lord of him yet. _No one is safe anywhere, Sweetrobin_ , she wanted to tell him. _Surely your own mother's death taught you that?_

But she didn't press the point. "Maybe we are safe in the Vale, but what good is life in the Vale as we sit by idly and read ravens' scrolls about the deaths of everyone we love?"

"You want us to fight the Lannisters? For Aunt Catelyn and Cousin Robb?" he said. His eyes widened in fear; his mother had instilled in him a lifelong fear of the Lannisters after she incessantly (and unjustly, it turned out) blamed them for the death of Robert's father, Jon Arryn.

"No, Robert. Not the Lannisters." She showed Robert her brother's message, but not the scroll that contained Ramsay Bolton's own words. Reading those particular words had terrified Sansa for her brother, and she was hardened to threats. Little fazed Sansa after what she'd endured at Joffrey's hands and orders. Had Robert read them, he would have curled up in her arms and never come out. No, Jon's words were tempered, told him what he needed to know, and no more.

"We can save cousin Rickon?" he asked, holding the scroll gingerly.

"We can save Rickon," Sansa confirmed with a smile. "Will you help me save my baby brother?"

She made her beautiful blue eyes as big as she could and let a pleading smile flit across her lips. Sansa had long known the effect she had on those of the opposite sex, but only recently had she learned to control it, to use it to her own gain. Most of the time Petyr saw through her efforts, but Robert was as putty in her hands with the right words as accompaniment.

Robert took a deep breath and fixed his feeble chin in an attempt to look like a determined little lord that he most certainly was not. "We'll do it. We'll send for the Knights of the Vale on the morrow, and then we'll march north."

Sansa took him in her arms then, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. The rest of the evening, she planted images of their victory in his mind, telling him how she'd show him the Godswood, the Weirwood tree, the broken tower, the library, the hot springs in the greenhouse, how he'd play with Rickon and have yet another cousin, yet another "sibling." When she'd asked him what bedtime story he wanted to hear that night as she tucked him into bed, he said, "None. I have enough to dream of tonight. Goodnight, Sansa."

That had all been two years ago, and she had done all she'd promised on that night and more. With the plight of the White Walkers at the Wall, after Winterfell had been retaken, the Northmen and the Knights of the Vale had banded together with the men of the Night's Watch to restore all the castles along the wall that had fallen into disrepair and to man them for the good of the realm. Robert complained often of the cold, and mentioned occasionally returning to the Vale, but she'd gently remind him Winter was no longer coming and was properly here, in the Vale as in the North. And in the Vale he'd be alone. No Sansa, no Rickon. Just him at the court of the Royces who hosted the Arryns in Winter when the Eyrie was impassable. And seeing as Myranda Royce always teased him terribly, Sansa smirked when he recanted his wish to return home and renewed his will to remain by her side at the Wall.

The banners behind them, the Stark Direwolf and the Falcon and Moon of House Arryn at the forefront and flanked by the banners of the other honored houses of the North and Vale, whipped and shuddered as the breeze picked up slightly. They had been waiting away from the encampment for half an hour already, but the army of the Dragon Queen was getting close. The three shadows in the sky were getting larger as the flew over the host, and one of the dragons gave a screech that even at a distance made their well-trained warhorses wicker and shuffle. At the forefront of the army, Sansa could see a large banner of black with red on it: the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. And to its right, a smaller banner of red. Sansa's breath hitched when she saw it. She knew he'd be here, she'd read his signature at the bottom of the correspondence to the Night's Watch herself, but it was only now that she truly realized, truly felt it, that she'd see him for the first time in five years: her husband.

She'd already been at the wall for over a year and a half as the Night's King tested the Wall's defenses, sending waves of the icy undead at various points of the Wall. So far the combined men of the Night's Watch, the North, and the Vale hadn't failed, but that wasn't to say there hadn't been casualties. When she'd heard the proclamations that the Dragon Queen was coming, that her dragons would lay waste to the "icy fuckers," as so many of the gentlemen of the Night's Watch liked to call them, even in front of a Lady, she was overjoyed. She'd walked as fast as she could through the snow without running to Castle Black to read the raven's scroll herself, Podrick Payne running at her side as her Queensguard. When she'd reached Lord Commander Dollett's study, he gave her a smile as he always did.

"Is it true?" she asked, turning to Jon, who held the scroll in his hand as he stood by the fire.

"Aye, it's true," he said, and she beamed at him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

When she pulled away, she noticed there was a frown on his face, but she thought nothing of it as she plucked the well-read scroll from his fingertips and read aloud:

" _Lord Commander: From across the Narrow Sea, Daenerys Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, called Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Mother of Dragons—_ wow that's a lot of titles," Sansa interjected, and Edd chuckled. " _Mother of Dragons has heard your plight. She makes her way to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea by ship, and will set sail from Braavos within two turns of the moon. Within six turns of the moon, she and her army of 50,000 strong, comprised of Unsullied, Dothraki, and the company of the Second Sons, will arrive at Castle Black, as well as Her Majesty's three dragons. With sword, shield, and fire, Her Grace will do what the Usurpers and Pretenders to the throne will not, and Protect the Realm in truth, not just in name. We would have your reply to Braavos before setting sail as to the status of the castles, defenses, and numbers to better plan for our alliance as we cross the Narrow Sea. Signed..."_ And at that, Sansa faltered. Finally, she looked to Jon, who had his eyes fixed on her. She looked back to the scroll. " _Signed Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen, Righful Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, and Warden of the West."_

Sansa's head spun as she dropped the scroll on Edd's desk, said her farewell, and left the room as quickly as she'd entered it. She ran into Podrick, who had been standing outside, but she pushed him aside as she made her way down the exterior stairs. "My lady?" he called after her as she ran. At the base of the stairs, Sansa collapsed onto her knees into a snowdrift and heaved out the contents of her stomach.

"Sansa," Jon said, and she felt his hands on her back, the warmth of his body close as he crouched over her to shield her from the curious stares of the onlooking Brothers in Black.

There was a ringing in Sansa's ears, and she didn't know if the buzzing of her mind was an inability to form a coherent thought, or a failure to process the myriad thoughts rushing at her like waves in a storm.

"He's alive," she said, the first proper sentiment she'd been able to voice in over five minutes. "He's alive," she echoed herself, and she leaned into Jon. She looked up, and Pod had a flask of wine uncorked and offered to her. Her husband really had trained him well. She'd chuckled at the thought as she accepted the wine, swished it around her mouth, then spat it out to join the remnants of her breakfast. Unladylike, but both Pod and Jon had seen her in far less dignified situations, so she didn't mind her courtesies with them in this moment.

He was alive, that lord husband of hers. She'd presumed herself a widow for so long she'd forgotten there really was a chance Tyrion might still be alive in the world somewhere. She took a long draught of the wine, leaned against Jon a moment as her thoughts settled into something manageable, and then stood. She wiped her mouth with the back of her glove, straightened her skirts, and then turned to look at the courtyard of Castle Black, where several brothers still looked at her. Jon gave his former brothers a stern look, and most of them turned away. Regardless, Sansa put on an air of composure and walked back to her tent with Podrick at her side. She dismissed Jon, and left Podrick outside by the brazier at the entrance to her tent amidst the encampment of Northmen stationed at Castle Black. Jeyne Poole, her childhood best friend, rescued from the clutches of Ramsay Bolton, and now her handmaiden and lady in waiting, took off Sansa's cloak and brushed the snow from her skirts.

Sansa took off her gloves and handed them to Jeyne before dismissing her, never taking her eyes from her bare, uncovered left hand, and the golden Lannister ring she still wore there on her fourth finger. She had continued to wear it in the Vale after escaping King's Landing, though she'd turned it over to hide the lion sigil so it resembled a simple golden band, merely to keep suitors at bay. Petyr had pressed her to take it off so that it wouldn't deter a match with Ser Harrold Hardyng, Petyr's potential betrothal of choice for her, but she'd refused. ("I can't marry until after Lord Tyrion is confirmed dead anyway, so why hide it?" she'd argued, and eventually she'd won.) He'd been angry at her for her refusal, but more for her loyalty to any man who wasn't him. In truth, Sansa simply wanted to deter any suitor, especially Petyr himself. She always smirked at the grimace that shadowed his eyes as he unaskingly took her hand only to feel the cold Lannister gold on her finger, a reminder that she wasn't his. _I am his, and he is mine_ , the words from her forced wedding echoed in her mind as she gently touched the lion sigil on her ring. _From this day, until the end of my days._

After leaving the Vale, wearing the ring was simply a habit after three years of wearing it daily. In retaking Winterfell and nursing Rickon back to health from the barbarities inflicted on him in the dungeons under Ramsay's watch, for which Sansa made sure he'd suffered tenfold, Sansa kept wearing it. Every now and then, when she passed the library and smelled the dusty books that had survived the blaze left by the Ironborn, or when a jug of Dornish Red managed to make it to the North and was freshly uncorked, or when Jon would make an uncouth joke when he thought Sansa wasn't listening, she would absent-mindedly touch her ring, remembering fondly the times her husband had made her want to laugh. She hadn't, to his constant disappointment; she didn't think she'd ever be capable of laughter again after the events of the so-called Red Wedding, but he'd made her dream, wish, hope of laughing at times even in the darkest hours of her loneliness, with no hope of a family to return to even after the war, and for that she would forever be grateful.

And so it was that the banners came closer, the banner of black and banner of red. The red three headed dragon was now visible on the larger banner, and Sansa could just make out the gold of the Lannister lion on her husband's banner. More noticeable, however, were the dragons, the dragons of flesh and blood and scale, not those of cloth and color. They flew high, higher even than the wall, but they were close enough that she could make out their colors: onyx black, snow white that almost blended into the winter sky above, and bright emerald green. All eyes of her retinue were on the dragons as they circled over head, finally landing a distance away from her retinue at the signal of a woman on horseback with white-blond, unmistakably Targaryen hair. Sansa had never seen a Targaryen, but there had been enough paintings of them in the Red Keep (those that King Robert hadn't had destroyed, anyway) that she recognized her hair as soon as she saw it. To her left and right sat large men, warriors and commanders.

Her hands tightened on her reins as she searched out the man she hadn't seen in five years, the figure who would sit just short of his companions, but she couldn't pick him out just yet. She looked to Jon, who was glancing at her from the corner of his eye. She gave him an assured smile that said she was fine. She was quite the liar now, from words to smiles. She only wished she'd had the talent in King's Landing. It would have saved her a lot of grief. But alas, she was eleven when she entered the city and thirteen when she left it. No child should have to know how to lie like that, to lie as well as it would have taken to help her in any way.

Finally, the host came to a halt as Daenerys Targaryen held up her fist. Silence filled the air as the sound of fifty thousand footsteps quieted at once.

A young woman on horseback rode forth from Daenerys's retinue. She took down the hood of her cloak to reveal a beautiful, dark face and wild, untamed hair like Sansa had seen only of a few Summer Islanders in the capitol. "Before you is Daenerys Targaryen," she called out. "The First of Her Name, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, called Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, and Mother of Dragons. Her Grace has come to aid the men of the Night's Watch and its allies to protect the realm against those known as the White Walkers."

Jon pulled his horse forward a few steps. "Before you is Sansa Stark, Queen of the North, Lady Paramount of the North, and Stewardess of Winterfell. Beside her is Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East. Together, they, and the Night's Watch, welcome you into this alliance to protect the realms of men."

There, finally: in the second row, next to the unknown man holding the Lannister banner, she spotted him as a burly, dark-skinned man in skins and furs and his even larger horse in the front row shifted to the side. She kept her face impassive as she glimpsed him, his face hidden in mid-day's overhead shadow under a hood just as hers was. Her stomach fluttered a moment, but she refused to let it show.

She took down her hood and her auburn hair streamed over her shoulder with the breeze for the first time since leaving her tent over an hour ago. With the Stark blood that flowed through her veins, the cold exhilarated her, and she felt color coming to her porcelain cheeks as the cold nipped at them. She stepped her stallion forward even with her brother. "Now that the formalities have been observed, I welcome you properly to Castle Black and to the North. I hope the castles east of here along the wall have greeted you well along your march toward us. The lords of my retinue will lead you to the lands prepared for your encampment. There, we have set out hay and covered troughs of warm water for your horses, as they must be exhausted after such a journey over sea and land. We also have had extra cooks' tents set up and working tirelessly on stew enough for your numbers as well as ours so that your men may eat as soon as they wish. It may not be the most elegant of meals, but after a long march in the cold of winter, I know how good even a bowl of broth can taste, so long as it's hot. Our hospitality is yours. I hope we can discuss the terms of our alliance properly on the morrow, after you've had time to set up and rest overnight."

The Dragon Queen observed her, and Sansa sat tall on her stallion, giving away nothing. Daenerys looked over her left shoulder, and Sansa could tell she was looking to Tyrion. He gave a bow of the head, almost imperceptible except to Sansa who was watching him. Daenerys looked again to Sansa, and gave the same gesture, but stronger and more deliberate. "I thank you for your hospitality. It is welcome in these cold months as Winter has Come."

Sansa smiled at the allusion to her family's words and brought her horse even further forward until hers stood parallel to Daenerys's white steed, close enough to speak only to her. "I hope I don't offend, but I've made special arrangements for Lord Tyrion. As you know, he is my husband, but also a Lannister. While I have ordered my men to attempt nothing upon pain of death, he is a Lannister in the North, after all his family has done to mine and so many of my bannermen's families. With your leave, I would take extra precaution to ensure his safety, and our alliance."

Daenerys considered her for a moment before answering. "As you will. Lord Tyrion," she called out over her shoulder. Sansa looked to him. There was a moment of pause before he pulled his horse forward of the retinue and directly in front of Sansa's.

"Your Grace," he answered to Daenerys, the first words from her husband she'd heard in over five years. "Your Grace," he added to Sansa, curtly. Sansa's brow furrowed, but only for a moment before she smoothed it.

"Lord Tyrion," she said, courteous as always. "I've made alternate arrangements for your security given the tension between your family and the company here. I hope that's acceptable."

He simply nodded, face still hidden in shadow under the thick brown cloak he wore. Sansa looked back to her men. "You know your orders," she stated, and most of her retinue, including Jon, led off to the side of Daenerys's host, directing them to the encampment. Daenerys nodded her head and left with her army, leaving just Sansa and Tyrion behind.

Only two of her retinue remained as all others left them: Brienne of Tarth, her sworn shield maiden, and Podrick Payne. As Podrick came into view, she finally heard her husband's familiar chuckle. Sansa smirked at him. "I thought you might appreciate a familiar face."

"I'd thought 'alternate arrangements' might include feeding me to the wolves," he quipped.

"Well, you've stayed alive thus far..." Sansa mused.

A pause, and then a clipped response. "Sorry to disappoint."

Sansa kept her face clear of emotion as she looked under his hood, trying to read his face. When she couldn't reach him through the shadows, she turned away to Podrick. "Escort Lord Tyrion to his tent. See that he has anything he needs."

Sansa knew she was being rude, leaving without so much as a goodbye, but she didn't care. She rode away with Brienne at her side then, not looking back to her lord husband. _Sorry to disappoint..._ Did he really think so little of her? With a frown, her thumb touched at the lion signet ring through her gloves as she rode to Castle Black. She'd planned to go back to her tent to work on letters to White Harbor and see Tyrion, Daenerys, and the rest of the Dragon army settled in, but after his response that had inexplicably struck her heart as a physical blow, she wanted distance. Five years apart, reunited at last, and he hurt her as only a Lannister could. Yes, she wanted distance.


	2. Tyrion I: A Crack Under the Arm

**Thanks for the reviews, everyone! It's really encouraging on my first work, and I'm glad you're enjoying it as much as I am.**

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 _Chapter 2:_

 _Tyrion I: A Crack Under the Arm_

 _Well, you've stayed alive thus far..._

Her words echoed in his mind. As Podrick led him to whatever special arrangements his lady wife had arranged for him, he thought of her words, her tone, the look on her face, her icy blue eyes as she said it. It was preferable to lamenting his sore, tired dwarf ass that longed to get off of this four-legged beast. He'd had a saddle made for him when the armada had anchored off the coasts of Pentos to restock fresh water and perishable foods on its way north to Braavos and then westward to Eastwatch, but his saddle hadn't helped. The last time he'd ridden this far on horseback was south from the Battle of Green Fork in the Riverlands then through the Crownlands on his way to take up the post of Hand of the King in his father's stead. But that had been much farther south, in warm, Summer days, and with something to look forward to: power, real power, for the first time in his life. Power that had nothing to do with sewage, which had been a depressingly low bar for him to aspire to thus far. But no, this ride had been on a horse much too large for him, though the smallest the Dothraki could spare for him at Daenerys's request, through snow and ice and bitter winds, headed toward a battle with the frozen undead. He hadn't been sure which would be more frigid upon his arrival, though: the White Walkers or his northern lady wife who despised him.

 _Well, you've stayed alive thus far..._

 _Yes, and no thanks to you, Lady Stark_ , he answered her bitterly in his mind. His bitterness over her abandonment of him aside, as he'd rode forward with the Targaryen host, he couldn't deny he'd been curiouser and curiouser to see just how much more beautiful his Stark wife had grown in his absence.

It had been five years, so she'd be, what, seventeen, eighteen? Eighteen, he decided as he recalled her thirteenth nameday just days before her mother and brother were killed at the Twins. _One of the few days he'd ever had hope for the two of them_ , he reminisced bitingly. He'd arranged with Margaery Tyrell to take Sansa to the flower markets in the city as a surprise as he worked to put together the former's wedding to his horrible nephew. It had been two weeks after they'd been married before he'd managed to make even a crack under the arm of her lady's armor and she'd told him of a small corner in the greenhouse at Winterfell that her mother let her keep for flowers. They'd been taking a walk in the gardens as he was wont to suggest for the evenings rather than staring at each other in their chambers thick with tension and unworded distrust prior to taking their supper together. No, he'd taken her for a stroll through the gardens and talked fondly of a memory of his brother Jaime and he stealing sweets from the kitchens and running out to the gardens to hide with the kennelman's two daughters.

He'd had no illusions that both girls were interested entirely in Jaime and not at all in him, but he remembered fondly the light-hearted running as Jaime called for him to keep up as he ran out the doors on his stunted legs with pastries shoved in his arms before diving into the labyrinth where the two girls were waiting for them to return as Jaime had said they would. He remembered their giggles as the two young lords had rounded the corner to their rendezvous bench, the girls reaching into his arms, their fingertips brushing at his tunic as they took the sweets from him, their kisses on his cheek, warm, with just a hint of wetness that left him leaning his face into their lips wanting more, the looks in their eyes as they regarded the two Lannister brothers who couldn't be more different from one another if they tried, the brush of their hands as they dusted away the powdered sugar that had rubbed off on his and his brother's clothes...

He'd told Sansa a more maiden-friendly version of that story, of course, minus the lusted musings of a young man before he'd come to know the company of women, but he'd seen the ghost of a smile as she walked by his side, auburn hair dappled in the Southron sun, her fair skin taking in its radiance and warmth and giving it back to onlookers thrice over. She'd sighed as they passed a section of the gardens Margaery had asked Joffrey if she could replant, to call it the Queen's Garden. His nephew, little monster though he was, was besotted with the Tyrell girl, and happily obliged her. Margaery had only just taken down the cordon to let others see her designs and choices of flowers, and Sansa was eager to see what her friend had done with it. As they passed a low bed of peonies, Sansa had knelt abruptly, her long, slender fingertips gently caressing a bloom that had caught her fancy. Tyrion had taken a few steps back to see what had enraptured his young wife, always made of impenetrable ice, and saw the bloom that was almost as radiant as she was. It was a fiery red in the center, with lazy petals that spiraled out to a fair pink. The same shade of pink her cheeks grew whenever he made a ribald comment, he'd thought.

"I've never seen this coloration," she murmured, her fingertips gently stroking at the silken petals as soft as her own skin, the emerald leaves that framed the flower, its sturdy stalk. "I used to keep peonies in my little corner of the greenhouse at Winterfell, but only ever solid whites and pale pinks, never anything so vibrant." After a moment, she seemed to realize she'd slipped up, that she'd mentioned anything remotely personal. She looked up at him, and Tyrion had been saddened to see the fear in her eyes as her pupils widened, but he responded only with a gentle smile. After a moment, a tug at the corner of her lips shadowed his own expression, and her cheeks blushed to the pink of the flower's outermost coloring.

Softly, he knelt down on one knee next to her, pulled the dagger from his belt—something he'd worn ever since the Blackwater, though he wasn't sure how much good it would ever do him if he ever truly needed it—and reached out to take the stem of Sansa's flower. With a quick cut, the flower came away in his hand.

"For my lady," he'd told her, holding the stem aloft in his fingers, the head of the flower tilted toward her. His gentle smile had never left his lips, and he kept it fixed there as she regarded him. He saw her eyes flit over his lips, his scar, his eyes. He was no dashing knight, he knew, but this was the best he could do. And he would always do his best, for her.

A shy smile touched her maiden's lips as her eyes locked onto the flower and she reached out. Her fingers brushed his ever so softly as she took the flower from him. "Thank you, my lord," she said in a near-whisper, and Tyrion repressed a chuckle as her cheeks burned brighter, darkening closer to the color of the flower's innermost petals than its outer. He'd stood then, and offered her his hand to rise, and she'd taken it, softly, confidently. Nothing like the first time she'd taken his hand, trembling, beaten, and humiliated. No, this is how he wanted to help her rise. In happiness, in joy, in beauty...

It was then that he'd decided what to do for Sansa's nameday. In the first two weeks of their marriage, he'd had no idea, truly, how to act around her. She was a child. A beautiful child, and his child bride even, but still, a child. But she loved fairy tales, and romantic knights. He'd wanted her to have that. He'd wanted her to have everything she desired. What good was marrying a Lannister if you couldn't have anything you wanted, _especially_ a Lannister such as him? While he'd worked at costs for the Royal Wedding, he'd had Podrick running to and from the kitchens to confirm a sumptuous spread of Northern dishes of duck and venison, and of course Sansa's favorite lemon cakes. He adored the sparkle in her eye when she saw lemon cakes. He'd have given them to her for every meal if he didn't think she would eventually tire of them. Briefly he wondered at taking her to Dorne. They could visit Myrcella, and she could have the freshest lemon cakes in the Seven Kingdoms, made with fruits directly from the trees. Unbidden, an image of Sansa came to his mind, her in a light, breezy white silken gown dancing and laughing through a lemon orchard, the sunlight soaking into her fair skin, shimmering in her auburn hair, revealing more of the streaks of gold he sometimes saw in the morning as the sunlight came through the window of their chambers, casting its rays onto his beautiful wife's hair as it lay on her pillow while she slept beside him... Tyrion shook his head. _She's a child. A child who doesn't want you_ , he reminded himself, not for the first time that day.

Sansa and Margaery had stayed out all day, which suited Tyrion just fine. After word of Joffrey's treatment of the last few singers spread, Tyrion had a hard time locating one willing to come inside the Red Keep. At last, he managed to lure one with gold and the promise of more for his lady wife's smile on condition he'd only be in the gardens, never in the Keep itself. As for Joffrey, he convinced his sister to sit down with the little beast to make sure that the wedding plans were to his satisfaction. A ruse to keep him away from Sansa and Margaery for the evening, one he dearly hoped would work.

"My lord?" a lady's voice sounded behind him as he oversaw the final touches of candles and flowers, and he turned round. He recognized her as one of Lady Margaery's handmaidens. "My lady wants to know if everything's ready for her to bring Lady Sansa?"

"Yes, yes, everything is set." He looked back at the scene and had to admit, even for the romantic in him, he was impressed at what he'd managed to put together in only a few days' time. He thanked the servants who were just finished laying out the dinner spread and sent them on their way. Only Tyrion remained, and Podrick and Bronn just outside the area where the canopy was set between flowering hedges. A few minutes passed before he heard women's voices.

"Lady Margaery, what are you doing?" Sansa's voice rose out of the babble as it approached him. There was a laughter in her voice that he rarely heard, and it was never directed at him, he reflected with a pang. But he pushed it aside; she'd had a good day for it to be there, and that was what mattered.

"Just trust me, Sansa. Follow my lead," Margaery's voice answered. Tyrion heard the ladies of House Tyrell give giggles, and finally they came round the corner of the hedges. Margaery's hands were over Sansa's eyes as she tentatively stepped forward where Margaery was leading her. Tyrion could have chuckled at her; her normally assured composure looked shaken and unsteady in her temporary blindness, so much so Tyrion thought she'd likely have her hands out to guide her were it not for the bouquet of flowers tucked into her arms.

But he would never have chuckled at her, not at the sight of beauty she was that evening. She was resplendent in a gown of deepest Tully blue with details of Stark gray and white and Lannister crimson. He'd had the gown made for her in the first week of their marriage, along with a dozen others; Tyrion couldn't blame her for hating to wear the gowns his sister had had made for her, and so that had been one of his first acts of kindness toward his new wife. She'd yet to wear this particular dress, though, and it took his breath away. In the fading light as the sun set to the west behind the city, as bronze rays of light settled on her fair skin and shimmered on the damask of her dress, she was truly the niece of Lyanna Stark, his Queen of Love and Beauty. He settled his face into an expression more neutral so as not to scare her off before giving Lady Margaery a nod. Cheekily, the Tyrell girl winked at him before gently releasing her hands from his wife's eyes.

Slowly, Sansa opened her icy blue eyes, and her lips opened in awe as she took in Tyrion's efforts to give her even a slice of the fairy tale she'd been promised upon journeying to King's Landing. He watched her face as her eyes danced around the arrangements of flowers and ribbons hung from the canopy, potted along the edges, the candles hanging over their heads that gave the tent a golden glow in the dying light. The sight of the ships sailing in the Blackwater beyond the coast behind them, the spread, the pillows strewn on the rugs for lounging after the meal, and the singer that took his cue to start strumming a quiet melody on the lyre.

"Happy Nameday, Sansa," he said quietly, and her cheeks flushed as she looked to him, a reluctant smile struggling to break free on her lips. "Come, you must be hungry after such a long day out." He offered her his hand, and she gingerly took it.

He didn't say much that night to his wife of three and ten. She didn't need a lover vying for her attention; she needed a protector, a caretaker, a role he would gladly take up as she blossomed into an ever more beautiful young woman. He watched her as she ate and laughed and giggled with the Tyrell girls and enjoyed the songs and asked for some of her favorites, some that Tyrion recognized as Northern tunes, having only heard them a few times before during his time in the North almost two years prior to that night...

And now he was back again. Back in the frigid, freezing cold of the North, expected to pay courtesies to the wife he had once intended and wanted to love. But that was before she left him to die. No, he had already spoken to Daenerys about an annulment once they reached King's Landing. Soon enough, he would be rid of her, and she of him, and they could move past the sham of a marriage his father had cursed them with over five years prior.

"How... how are you, my lord?" Podrick finally asked as they dismounted, Tyrion with difficulty as Pod could only find a bucket and not proper steps for him to jump down to. He steadied himself by holding to the stirrups as his feet wobbled on the overturned bucket. After a moment of unease that left him feeling like he was on the deck of the ship again, he caught his footing and stepped down, releasing the stirrups of the gray mare that had seen him the length of half the Wall. Tyrion took a moment to stretch his legs for the first time in hours as Pod unsaddled, unbridled, and tied up their horses under a shelter erected at the outskirts of the northern encampment. Only once had he been off his horse since they left at dawn, and that had been to relieve himself. Pissing on the wall wasn't nearly as gratifying as pissing off it had been the last time he was here, but it had felt damn good to relieve himself after six hours ahorse nonetheless. Wherever Pod was taking him, he hoped the chamber pot was empty. After an additional four hours on horseback while drinking copious amounts of wine from his flask as he rode in order to steel him for facing his wife and her apparent subjects, he would surely fill the damn pot.

"I've been better, Podrick, but I'm sure a good evening by the fire with a jug of wine will warm me up just fine. And you?" he asked the boy-turned-man who was once his squire.

"Good, my lord. Lady Sansa knighted me and appointed me to her Queensguard for my service to her. She intends to have Queen Daenerys confirm my knighthood once Lady Sansa bends the knee. Queen Sansa, sorry." He looked down at his former lord as he hung up the saddles and blankets. "Everyone else around here is a stickler for titles, the Northmen especially, my lord, but Lady Sansa never chides me for it, and I was so used to calling her 'my lady' from King's Landing. She's only Queen because there was no other Stark up to the task, she jokes." _Gods, even Podrick's infatuated with my wife nowadays,_ Tyrion thought. But then he remembered all the times he would catch Podrick blushing around her and realized maybe Podrick had always been smitten. _Only the Gods know what's going on in that boy's head._

Podrick turned his cloak down to cover his arms again before they left the shelter of the stable. "My lord?" he asked, gesturing for Tyrion to follow him, and Tyrion indicated for him to lead the way.

Though Tyrion wore a dark brown cloak with his hood up, he knew the men that moved between their tents knew precisely who he was. He had no doubt word had got out among the Northmen that a Lannister, specifically the Imp, would be among them. It had at the other castles along the way, but those had mostly been manned by Night's Watch men and Knights and soldiers of the Vale. When he'd been approached a few times by men who held the pommels of their swords threateningly as they stopped him, Tyrion merely quipped, "I killed Tywin Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon. I'm the best Lannister killer there is." They held less of a grudge against his family, for little Vale blood had been spilled in the War of the Five Kings, so they had laughed and let him pass. Not so with the Northmen, and so even with Pod at his side with his hand on his sword as he walked him swiftly through the camp, Tyrion felt jumpy for the first time in a long while since they'd started the long journey from Slaver's Bay back to Westeros.

Ahead, he saw a tent with a large Direwolf banner flying high and proud at its peak. Outside, it was guarded by Night's Watch men and a few men whose tunics he recognized as being from the Vale. Pod led him inside the tent with a nod to the men outside. Tyrion watched them as he went in and sensed no hostility, surprisingly enough. "Lady Sansa hand-picked them. The Vale knights chosen have marriage ties to the Westerlands, and all the Night's Watch men are either from the West or King's Landing."

"Given that I killed their liege lord, is that a wise choice?" Tyrion asked as Pod helped him with his cloak.

"Your lord father's the one who gave them the choice between the Wall or the noose, so I don't think there's any love lost there," Pod answered, and Tyrion snorted a laugh.

"Fair enough." It was only then, once his misgivings were assuaged and he moved to stand by one of the braziers to warm up, that he noticed his new lodgings. A desk with papers strewn atop it, a vanity with a hairbrush and scents, a dressing robe casually laid across the back of a chaise...

"Podrick?"

"Yes, my lord?" he asked as he brushed the snow off of Tyrion's cloak.

"Why am I in Lady Sansa's tent?" He stared at his former squire shrewdly.

The poor boy's reactions hadn't changed a bit; he blushed as red as he ever did. "My lady, Lady Sansa, she said you're her husband, that you're to be given accommodations as her husband. She thought, after five years, you'd want—if you'd rather something else, I could find her and ask, my lord," he finally stammered to a finish.

Tyrion had no wish to share quarters with a wife who hated him, and who he severely distrusted after she'd shown how little her precious Stark honor truly meant to her as she framed him for murder and left him to his sister's vengeance years ago, but he was curious to see what game his wife was playing. Trying to get him off kilter before negotiations with Daenerys in the morning? Or what?

"No, it's fine. I just hadn't expected this, that's all. When do you think she might return from whatever business she has?" Tyrion asked coolly.

Podrick shook his head. "I'm not sure, my lord. She always takes her supper alone here, so she might return by then."

Tyrion nodded, took stock of the jugs of wine sitting atop a table by the desk, the books stacked atop the latter. "Very well. Thank you, Podrick. I should be fine until supper."

"My lord," Podrick said with a nod of his head, and left.

Once alone, Tyrion made wine a priority. He opened the three jugs and sniffed them. Arbor Red, Arbor Gold, ah, Dornish Red. That's what he needed. He poured himself a generous cup of the third, closed up the three jugs, and then walked around to see what he could observe of the woman his child bride had become.

An open trunk behind the dressing screen lazily drawn caddy corner to her bed revealed folded gowns fit for the queen she now was, mostly in hues of gray, blue, green, and purple, but gowns of gold and red caught his eye. He knew she looked stunning in the colors—he himself had given her two gowns of each when she'd been his in King's Landing—but he didn't think she'd continue to wear them after coming home to the North.

He looked away to the desk that stood before him. He knew he was Daenerys's Hand and Sansa wouldn't appreciate his meddling prior to the alliance being finalized, but he wondered just how his wife fared at ruling a kingdom. He knew he'd certainly enjoyed it, just as he would again once Daenerys took the throne. A few letters to White Harbor lay open without a seal; Tyrion could tell she'd left them out to dry. Perusing them, it seemed she had something of a hand in trade between White Harbor and Braavos, Pentos, and even Lorath. Curiously, Valyrian glyphs caught his eye and he thumbed through a stack of missives. Some he recognized as the Braavosi dialect, others Pentoshi and Lorathi. The handwriting was shaky and not as pristine as the missives in the Common Tongue, but it was undoubtedly Sansa's hand. His brow furrowed; she'd never mentioned knowing Valyrian. He had learned at a young age, but that was only because he'd never been allowed boys' studies in fighting as his brother was. No, rather than a half-day with the maester, he had a full day of study, and so learned Valyrian. Sansa, though...

He smirked at the thought of how clever she was. She always was far cleverer than anyone believed her to be, but apparently even more than he estimated. He shook the thought away. He wasn't here to be sentimental about the wife who had rejected him; he was only here to see how well she'd learned to play the game.

He moved on from her desk to the vanity. He leaned forward and smelled her familiar favorites: lemongrass and lavender. "I suppose some things don't change," he murmured to himself, thinking back to moments when he'd been close to her, when she'd moved just a few inches closer to him in their marriage bed as she slept beside him, when he'd closed his eyes and breathed deep in her scent. He remembered those first nights of their marriage, those first few weeks. On days when she'd laughed, when he'd made her happy, he'd wondered how she'd react if he were to touch her. Most of the time, he'd promptly disabused himself of the notion, remembering the look of revulsion on her face as she had seen him on their wedding night, sitting in the bed across from her. But some nights, some nights that followed days when she'd called him Tyrion as he'd asked rather than "my lord," when he'd made her laugh and blush and smile, some nights he wondered if he could hold her, if she wouldn't mind being in his arms, her face pressed to his chest, if he could breathe deep the scent of her hair and skin. Some nights he even wondered if she tasted as good as she smelled. Her lips, her neck, her breasts... _She's a child_ , he would always scold himself when the notion came to him, and he would focus his thoughts on Shae.

At that remembrance, Tyrion's eyes snapped open and his back straightened away from the fragrances. He clenched his fist, the hands of gold still biting into his palm at the thought of her. _Just another woman who lied about her vows to me,_ he thought bitterly. He took another swig of the wine he still held in his hand, and sat at a table with breads and fruits. Hungry, and deciding it wouldn't do for him to be drunk seeing his wife properly for the first time in five years when she returned for dinner shortly, he picked at some of the food, selected an interesting-looking tome that had obviously come from Castle Black, and determined to read until Sansa's return.

It was later than he expected when he heard the murmurs of "Your Grace," "Queen Sansa," "My Queen" becoming louder as his wife finally returned to him on her approach to her tent. He was working on his third cup of wine when the murmurs came from the guards he knew to be standing outside the entrance. There was a pause before she entered, and Tyrion smirked that maybe she was looking forward to this reunion as much as he was. He took another swig, and finally, Sansa pushed open the entrance and came in.

"Hello, Sansa."


	3. Sansa II: A New Beginning

**Since we had literally no Sansa _or_ Tyrion in this last episode, I thought I'd post two chapters this week rather than just one. Hopefully this helps stave off some of the withdrawal from our two faves. (Next chapter will still be posted on Sunday!) Hope you enjoy reading their first proper reunion as much as I enjoyed writing it!**

* * *

 _Chapter 3_

 _Sansa II: A New Beginning_

Sansa turned to see him lounged at her table, feet kicked up on an adjacent chair, cup of wine in hand, book spread out in front of him. An evening like any other. Gods, it was like they'd never left King's Landing.

"My lord." She kept her face still as she dispensed with her cloak, gloves, and boots and brushed out her skirts. She'd told Jeyne to bring them dinner in a moment, but otherwise to leave them be. His eyes narrowed at her, and the right corner of his mouth twitched. He was studying her. She knew the look well. "I hope the wine is good?"

"Haven't had a proper Dornish red in months, and this is a good vintage." He took another swig. Sansa walked past him and poured her own cup of Arbor Gold.

"I've told my handmaiden to bring us dinner shortly."

"Good."

Sansa looked over his shoulder at the book he'd chosen on her way back to the table before settling into the chair opposite him. "A tedious thing, and it reads like the stuff of nightmares. But once I thought White Walkers and wights and giants were the stuff of legend, so who knows?" She took a drink from her cup and eyed his reaction.

"Ice spiders, really?"

"Ever the skeptic, even as you escort a queen with three dragons across the North to face the icy undead." Sansa chuckled at him, and he smiled in return, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.

"So, Sansa, what exactly am I doing here?" The smile fixed onto his lips and his narrowed eyes locked onto hers.

Sansa held her cup in her left hand. While she thought for a response, she tapped her ring against the cup, producing a metallic clinking, a nervous habit she'd picked up since she'd last seen her husband. The noise drew his gaze to her hand, to the ring of his she still wore, and she saw his brow furrow for just a moment before looking back to her eyes, searching for something. But she gave nothing away. She switched the cup to her right hand, smoothed her skirts with her left and let it lay in her lap. "Well, unless you managed to find another wife in Essos these past few years, I do believe we're still married?" She took a sip, nonchalantly looking at him, feigning disinterest.

Sansa and Tyrion sat in silence as Jeyne came in then with a boy from the kitchens and moved aside the book, fruits, and sweetbreads to set the supper of honeyed ham, potatoes, and pease. Sansa almost wanted to laugh, remembering one of their more awkward marital conversations.

"I do hope the pease aren't overcooked," Sansa said mildly as she placed her napkin in her lap and picked up her knife and fork. As she cut a piece of ham, she looked at Tyrion who merely shook his head at her comment with an unwilling smile on his lips. Before eating, she leaned in and added, "If I can't make jokes about our stilted and forced courtesies last time we knew each other, then neither of us can, and then where does that leave us?" She popped the ham into her mouth and followed it with wine.

"It didn't have to be stilted or forced, Sansa."

Sansa gave a dark chuckle. "I begged for mercy for my father, and Joffrey redefined mercy to mean coercing him to give a false confession to treason followed by an execution in front of his eldest daughter and half the population of King's Landing. I'm fairly certain everything I did as regards your family after that was destined to be stilted or forced." Her hands stilled as she looked at him. An involuntary flutter of fear whispered in her heart, the echo of the terrified little girl she had been the last time she'd revealed something so brazen to the man sitting across from her. But she was no girl, not anymore, and she hadn't been that girl for quite a while now. And she certainly wasn't terrified of him, not with an army that would fight and kill at her command just a shout away. _I am only a little lion, child, and I vow, I shall not savage you_ , some of her husband's first words to her echoed from deep within her memory.

His eyes searched her face in silence and his mouth twitched before he responded. "Fair enough." They ate in silence for a while until Tyrion broke it again. "I couldn't help but notice that you've learned Valyrian since we've been apart."

Sansa smirked. "I thought you might take a look at my desk while I was out. See anything of interest?"

"It was just professional curiosity. I wondered at how you fared at ruling."

"And your verdict?"

Tyrion tilted his head, taking her in. "You seem to be doing a good job of it. Instigating trade with Lorath to import obsidian through White Harbor. Not something many young women of eight and ten can boast of." He raised his glass to her in mock toast before taking a sip.

"That was one of the first things I did as Queen, sourcing more dragonglass for the Night's Watch. So certainly no other woman of six and ten can boast of it." She took her own sip of wine and regarded him. "As for the Valyrian, I studied at Winterfell and knew a bit even when I knew you. I'd studied High Valyrian, though, and I've had to learn, well, try to learn at least, some of the dialects. A bit tricky, but Lady Melisandre has helped."

"Lady Melisandre?" His brow furrowed.

"She used to be Stannis's Red Priestess, yes." His eyes lit up in recognition, then curiosity. "When Stannis died marching on the Boltons before I took Winterfell back, she fled to Castle Black. Thank the gods, or Jon wouldn't be here, and neither would I, for that matter," Sansa finished, the last part more of a whisper meant for herself. Sometimes it scared her just how many things had had to fall into place by chance more than anything else for her to be in the position she held. Chance rarely held together, but she was determined to hold the North, at least until it was safe. "Tyrion?"

"Yes, Sansa?"

She looked at him, toying with more measured words, but decided on blunt truth. "I've heard rumors of her conquests in Slaver's Bay, I've heard that she's good. But is she?" Sansa stared at him hard. "The last time a Targaryen sat the Iron Throne, my grandfather and uncle died before I was born. Brutally."

Tyrion shook his head. "I'm old enough to remember her father's terror, Sansa. She's nothing like him. I wouldn't be supporting her if she were."

"Not even for vengeance and Casterly Rock?" she asked him.

He smirked at her knowingly. "Not even then. I served one mad king already. I wouldn't serve a mad queen."

Sansa's eyes flicked over his face, looking for tells, any hint of doubt in his words that even he might not want to acknowledge to himself, but she found none. Finally, she was convinced. "Good. I'd hoped for as much."

He chuckled. "Did you have a coup in mind if she hadn't been worthy?"

Sansa held the rim of her wine cup just below her lips before she decided on a simple smile as a response before taking a sip.

"Should I be worried about the negotiations tomorrow?" he asked.

"Should I?" she countered.

Tyrion tilted his head to the side. "She's not her father, and she's not my sister. Whatever she will be, will be an improvement."

"Then we should be fast allies." Sansa raised her cup in toast. "To the impending War of the Four Queens."

He raised his cup and then drank deeply. "Let's just hope it's not as bloody as the last War."

"Maybe not as bloody, but I imagine the battles might be a bit more heated," Sansa quipped, and Tyrion chuckled when he realized her joke was intentional.

"Gods, why did you never have this dark, twisted sense of humor in King's Landing? I would have enjoyed it immensely," he confessed.

Sansa shook her head. "Let's not be dull. We've already gone over why I couldn't speak my mind years ago. No point hashing it over again." Sansa pushed her plate away, having eaten as much as she cared to with butterflies fluttering about her belly every so often. "So, how are you faring in a real Winter?"

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Bloody Northerners. How you manage to put up with this weather every few years is beyond me. I can barely stand the icy hell out there, and I've only been in it for two weeks."

"Well, I guess it's a good thing you never have to put up with it again once you have Casterly Rock."

"Hmm," was his only reply.

"You would have made a terrible Lord of Winterfell," Sansa told him, her wine making her more brazen as the evening wore on.

"No doubt. Almost everyone up here wants to kill me now, and that's _after_ I killed my father. Imagine their hatred if he was still pulling your and my strings from King's Landing." He gave a fake shudder at the thought, and Sansa let slip a giggle, which garnered a curious look from her husband. "How do you think I'll fare as Lord of the Rock?"

Sansa mimicked him, tilting her head to the side in the consideration. She could joke as he did, but settled on fair truth, instead. "I think you'd make a fair and good Lord of the Rock and Westerlands if your bannermen give you the chance."

"And you?" he asked.

"And me what?" Sansa took another drink, not comprehending his question.

"And what will you be, after you've bent the knee to Daenerys? What will you do after you're no longer Queen in the North?"

"I assume I'd be Lady Lannister. Unless you insist on an annulment?" Sansa asked. She tried to keep her voice neutral, dispassionate, but she wasn't sure she succeeded. She set her cup down; she didn't need anymore wine, not where this conversation was headed.

"Would you not insist on it yourself?"

Sansa could feel his gaze burning through her as she considered her words carefully. She'd had months to consider this with Jon. Many drunken nights had been spent by the brazier with her half-brother, tortuously wondering what to do when she found out she wasn't in truth a widow anymore.

"I could have petitioned the High Septon at any time in the past five years if I insisted on an annulment. Our marriage was never consummated, the only obstacle would have been if your sister intervened on grounds of our being fugitives from the King's Justice." She smirked at the thought.

"Why didn't you petition?" Tyrion asked, carefully considering his own wine. "I assume you never did."

Sansa breathed deeply and then exhaled. She brought her left hand up from her lap and looked at the wedding ring she still wore, its gold glinting in the yellow light dimly flowing from the untended braziers. "I could have married a Northern lord for an alliance in these past five years. We would have wed in the sight of the Old Gods and told your Seven, the Sept, and the High Septon to go fuck themselves even if they didn't grant an annulment." Tyrion coughed on his wine, and she looked up, realizing that was probably the first time she'd sworn in front of him, but she didn't let it stop her. "But answer me this: I have the Stark blood. If Winterfell had fallen into your hands as your family had planned, who would have ruled?"

"I would have," Tyrion said, and Sansa was glad he didn't bandy about the truth.

"And if I'd married a Northern lord in the past five years, who would rule?"

Tyrion's eyebrow ticked up. "Not you, most likely."

"Not me," Sansa agreed. "Winter isn't coming, Winter is here. We are at war. And my men need a Stark in name and blood. Rickon has the name, but he's too young. Jon has the blood but not the name. Only I could have done it. I've had better things to do than let a man, Northerner though he would have been, take my claim and my name from me." Her voice dropped as she finished. "I've had better things to do than birth a child or two to be raised in war tents for the first years of their lives."

"And so you had me," Tyrion finished for her, indicating to her ring, his tone mocking.

Sansa raised her hand again before lowering it back to her lap and staring at it. "And so I had you. My husband who still lived so long as there was no proof of his death." Sansa shook her head. "Your quip at the welcome party was uncalled for. When I first read your message to the Night's Watch, I didn't know what to think, I'd gotten so used to thinking of myself as a widow. But by the end of the day, I was glad you were alive." She paused. "If there were ever a way for the North to make peace with any Lannister, it would be through you and me."

At that, she looked back into his eyes. "Whether you want to remain my husband or not, I would have us be allies. I would have the two of us end the bloodshed once and for all. When my father was Hand, after Jaime attacked him for my mother taking you prisoner, Robert told him that he couldn't rule the Seven Kingdoms with the Lannisters and the Starks at each other's throats. It's just as true for Daenerys as it was for him. It ends with us."

Tyrion looked at her for a long time before finally replying. "You and I really do have a complicated past, don't we?"

At that, Sansa laughed openly. She looked at him, then decided to fill her wine cup once more. "Here's to a truce." She reached across the table, as did he, and they toasted properly for the first time that night. Not cynically or mockingly, but a proper toast. No matter what bitterness remained between the two of them, they both wanted peace, Sansa realized. They both wanted rest. They just had one more war to fight before they got there.

They finished their wine in silence, and the remainder of the evening was much the same as Tyrion resumed his place in the book he'd been reading earlier, taking a blanket with him to the chaise by the brazier at the foot of the bed, and Sansa took up her letters and finished them to be sent off in the morning.

Sansa's eyes were tiring as she looked up from her desk as her last letter to her Uncle Brynden, currently at Moat Cailin, was signed, dried, sealed, and ready to send out in the morning. Sansa closed her eyes for a moment and rubbed the back of her neck to soothe the knotted muscles that had tensed as she'd leaned over the desk for the past hours. When she opened her eyes, she saw Tyrion watching her. He quickly looked back to his book, but she knew he'd been watching her.

She suppressed a smirk at the thought; she'd caught him often in moments like this when they were in King's Landing. Moments when she would turn around and simply find him watching her with a softened look in his eyes. Sometimes it had made her stomach flutter, knowing someone thought of her that way. Sometimes it had made her nervous, knowing someone thought of her _that way._ She hadn't known what to make of her older Lannister husband who was kind and gave her flowers and lemon cakes and refused to take his rights even when he could have so easily. She didn't trust him. No, she knew better than to trust him with her thoughts. But at moments when she caught him staring at her, she realized he'd told her an unspoken truth he hadn't meant to; that he desired more than her claim to Winterfell, but not enough to make her unhappy in his taking it.

There was a power in that, and even at thirteen, she'd enjoyed having that power. She'd had no idea what to do with it at that age, and wouldn't until she had left King's Landing for the Vale and had practiced her charms on her cousin Robert, Littlefinger, and other Knights of the Vale who succumbed to her requests, but she had enjoyed having that allure over Tyrion nonetheless. Since greeting him this afternoon, and then taking supper with him, she hadn't seen that look, that unguarded truth from him. She'd wondered if she'd lost that draw over him. But no, she thought, unable to hold back a smile as she put out the candles at her desk, he'd just shown her unbidden that she still had that ability to make him want her. _Woe be to you, dear husband_ , Sansa thought. _I know far more now than I did when last I held sway over you._ Sansa wasn't sure yet what she wanted to do with her newly rediscovered power over him, though. Use him for influence with the Queen? Influence at Court, with the Lords of the West? It was something to ponder, but as Sansa covered a yawn as she stood from her desk, she decided to ponder it upon the morrow.

She looked to her right and saw a few trunks opened and men's garments inside. "I see your belongings were brought to you," she said, addressing Tyrion for the first time in hours, and he looked up once more from the book. "If you'd like to rearrange any of the furniture to make room for your things, please feel free."

Tyrion nodded. With that, Sansa walked confidently past him to the dressing screen. He would watch her through the screen; she had caught him a few times like that even when she was younger. Now that she had even more of a woman's body, she couldn't imagine he'd stray from habit. But she tried not to dwell on it. Life in a war camp wasn't a modest life, and she'd gotten over her shyness in front of her brother, Podrick, and even some of her more trusted Northmen months ago. She changed out of the gray dress she'd worn all day, her shoulders rejoicing from being able to relieve them from carrying the weight of her heavy woolen dress, and she changed into a linen night shift. For her husband's sake, she chose one with a modest neckline. As she considered it, she realized she'd have to have new shifts made. As Sansa's bosom had grown, she'd begun to prefer shifts with looser, deeper necklines simply because they were less constricting, but she could make this accommodation for her husband. Or maybe she wouldn't, she considered mischievously. She'd see how he acted around her tomorrow before deciding what her evening attire should be.

Changed into her shift, she looked about for her robe and couldn't find it. She peered around the screen and spotted it—behind Tyrion's head as he sat reading on the chaise. Of course. She let out a sigh before emerging from behind the screen and approaching her husband. "My lord?" she asked softly, and she saw his eyes soften as he took her in from head to toe almost immediately. Shyness took her over for the first time in ages, and she brought one arm up to wrap around her body. "Could I have my robe?"

It took him a moment to respond, so she pointed at it behind his head, and then he leaned forward. "Of course, my apologies. I should have moved it elsewhere before sitting." He reached behind his head and handed it to her.

"Thanks." She half-turned away from him as she put it on and cinched it shut in the front before moving to sit at the vanity as she took down her hair. Normally Jeyne did this for her, but Jeyne's family had been killed by the Lannisters in King's Landing, and she didn't know Tyrion and his kindnesses, and so wasn't as forgiving of him. She thought it best to give her handmaiden some time to know him informally for meals and such before asking her to see to Sansa so intimately while Tyrion also readied for bed. Besides, Sansa had gone three years in the Vale without a handmaiden while she'd lived as Petyr Baelish's bastard daughter before reclaiming her true name. She could handle a few weeks of adjustment, even as queen.

Sansa brushed her hair out slowly. She hadn't realized just how much longer she'd let it grow since she'd last seen Tyrion until she noticed him watching her in the looking glass, his gaze trailing up and down her hair that now fell just shy of her hips. A smirk played on her lips as she realized yet again that evening, she had him. She brought her hair around her left shoulder and braided it loosely, as she had since she was a young girl, and tied it off with a length of green ribbon. Once she was sure it was tied tightly and wouldn't come out, Sansa fetched the pitcher of water from the table, poured it into a basin, and washed her face before patting it dry.

She then took her vial of lavender oil and tipped out just a touch of it onto her fingertips before applying it to her neck. After she'd put it on, she realized Tyrion might think it was for his benefit, but she pushed aside the thought. She hadn't always applied fragrances at nighttime, but she'd found from Robert's bedtime routine that he slept best with a touch of lavender oil on his cheek, as the scent soothed him at night and calmed him. After all the nightmares she'd endured, she was curious early in her time in the Vale and tried it herself. That night, and most nights after, she slept much more soundly. She'd never slept a night without it since.

Lastly, she took care of what Winter's harsh winds did to her skin. A creme with honey and almond oil for her face, a simple lotion for her hands, and a balm for her lips. It was a routine she had learned from her mother. Quite a few Northern-born ladies didn't bother during the Winter, allowing their skin and lips to dry and crack just as their husbands' did, but her mother had taught her proper care even in her first Winter as a very young girl and again whenever the Summer snows came. Sometimes Sansa felt vain about the routine—surely there were more important things she could do with these few minutes of each night?—but it wasn't about vanity, not anymore. Now it was simply a way to connect with her mother. Sansa sighed at the thought of Catelyn Stark as she finished rubbing in the last of the hand lotion.

She tidied her vanity for the morning before standing from the bench and going to the bed.

"Would you like me to—" Tyrion started, gesturing to the candles, but Sansa held up her hand.

"It's quite alright. Read as long as you like. It's not like I'm not used to your bedtime habits of reading all night only to come to bed just before dawn." She gave him a kind smile as she untied her robe, laid it at the foot of the bed, and got under the blankets and furs that kept her warm at night. Sansa stared up at the canopy of the tent and was glad of the braziers to the sides and foot of the bed as she watched the canvas flex above her in the winter winds. "Goodnight, Tyrion," she said to him from the bed.

"Goodnight, Sansa," was his reply. A smile tugged at her lips. For months, she'd worried at how he might have changed in the last five years, what he'd think of her changes in that time; and at his cutting greeting this morning, she'd feared for tonight. But no, tonight had gone well. True, everything was tentative, and it wasn't the open and unchecked camaraderie she'd always hoped for in a marriage, but it had been more real than anything they'd had in King's Landing. It was a start, and that was all she'd wanted from tonight. A new beginning for an old marriage.


	4. Tyrion II: To Help Her Rise

**Happy Thronesday! Hope you enjoy some sappy Tyrion and power play Sansa. Enjoy! ;-)**

 **Edited 6/12/16: After triple-checking years of everything happening, somehow I screwed up what Tyrion's age would be in 305 AC and put him at 30 rather than 32 (don't ask me why I didn't question before publishing someone in 273 AC being 30 in 305 AC). Anyway, that's literally the only change. Sansa's still 18 with her 19th nameday coming up later in the year 305 AC having been born in 286 AC.**

* * *

 _Chapter 4_

 _Tyrion II: To Help Her Rise_

He'd stopped reading the moment Sansa had caught him watching her rub her neck. She'd been working for hours, more dutifully than he'd thought his fanciful wife capable of, but she'd changed, apparently. Her diligence almost made him feel derelict of his own duties as he read, but his field was politics, and talking. Until the alliance was finalized in the morning discussions, there wasn't much for him to do for Daenerys. No people to rule that they hadn't brought with them, and they were settled into the camp around them. Sansa was taking care of the North, and the rest of Westeros was still his sister's problem for now until he helped Daenerys liberate it from her.

When he'd seen out of the corner of his eye Sansa finally lift her head from her work and lay down her quill, he'd smirked at his reading. He hadn't done much paperwork for Daenerys in Meereen, as he wasn't all that skilled in the Ghiscari variant of Valyrian that dominated Slaver's Bay, and he hadn't missed it, but he remembered how satisfying it was when he was Hand in King's Landing to work into the hours of the night, and the satisfaction when the work was finished, with nothing hanging over his head til morning. He wondered if Sansa felt the same way as she closed her eyes. Without meaning to, he'd watched her as she reached her hand up over her shoulder and tilted her head down to knead at her neck. Idly, he wondered what it would be like to massage her neck for her, to feel her skin under his fingers, to ease her tension and relax her under his grasp... and then she was looking back at him.

He returned his attention to his reading, but it might as well have been in Old Ghiscari for all it made sense to him. He must have read the same line a dozen times over without comprehending as he chided himself for lapsing into old habits. _Five years doesn't change the fact that that girl does not want you_ , he told himself. _She left you for dead. If she's playing the coquette, it's for a reason._

Even so, he couldn't return to his reading, not when her nighttime rituals were so familiar to him. Not when the silhouette behind her dressing screen practically begged to be adored and worshipped. Tyrion had thought her beautiful and enticing even as she was still a girl on the verge of womanhood, but now... she'd bloomed more beautifully than he had ever imagined possible. Her bosom had swelled, and the curve her body made in at the waist before flaring out at her fully grown hips was almost enough to make him groan just thinking about. He could only watch her for a moment before he had to look back at his reading and force himself to stare at the dot of an 'i' in the third paragraph to avoid looking to her. But whatever little remained of his resolve crumbled the moment she padded barefoot to him in naught but her shift. She called to him and he'd looked and instantly been transfixed by the sight of her. He could see the outline of her rosy pink nipples through the thin linen shift she wore, see where the fabric gathered about her hips, where the hemline ended just below her knees, exposing her perfect calves and leaving it up to his imagination as to how much she'd changed under there since he last saw her properly on their wedding night. She clutched her shift around her in embarrassment, which only made the fabric cling more closely to her form, but then she pointed to the back of the chair, and he realized she wanted her robe. He handed it to her and stuttered out some apology, but he couldn't be sure of what he said as he watched her turn to show him her side profile now, of her pert bosom and backside and fit stomach before she shook out her folded robe and put it over her beautiful shape.

 _Fuck it_ , he thought as he allowed himself to watch her go to her vanity to let down her hair, brush it, braid it, tie it off with an emerald ribbon, then wash her face and pat it dry. He hadn't had a woman he could openly admire since he spent his last night at the whorehouse in Braavos before the long trip to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. After months at sea, what he really wanted was a good fuck, but he knew he wouldn't get that from this dear wife of his, no matter how tempting she looked to him. He looked back down as he thought she'd retire to the bed then as she always had after washing her face, but no. He smelled the lavender as soon as she opened the bottle and as she touched a bit to her neck, he wondered just for a moment if she meant to smell sweet for _him_. But he swatted the idea away as a childhood memory came to his mind of his Aunt Genna putting a sprig of lavender under his pillow to soothe him to sleep after a nightmare. That's all Sansa was doing. The Seven certainly knew she had enough in her past to wish for sleep without disturbance. Then she applied cream to her face and hands, and a balm to her lips. As Tyrion watched her rub the lotion into her hands, he wondered how soft her touch would feel, how gentle her lips— _she betrayed you_ , he snapped at himself, his gaze shuddering back to the page.

Ever the proper lady, she tidied up her vanity, putting everything in its place before she went to the bed. He'd thought she might stay up to read, but apparently not.

He half-rose to the nearest candelabra and asked, "Would you like me to—?" but she cut him off.

"It's quite alright. Read as long as you like. It's not like I'm not used to your bedtime habits of reading all night only to come to bed just before dawn." She smiled at him familiarly, and the corner of his mouth tugged on its own as she removed the robe to reveal herself in that flimsy shift to him yet again before she hid under the thick blankets and furs that lay on their bed. Just as he was about to turn away from her, she called out, "Goodnight, Tyrion."

 _Tyrion._ Seven hells, he could get used to her saying his name. "Goodnight, Sansa," he replied, letting her name linger on his tongue. With her safely tucked away in bed, he closed his eyes and let his head drop back on the head of the chaise with a sigh. She was manipulating him for something, using him for some advantage, he knew that, but gods, what a pleasure it would be to be used by her.

He tried to start his reading again, but found he couldn't, no matter how much he tried. Beyond being distracted by Sansa, he truly was exhausted from the day's ride. Though he'd read for much of the time before dinner, he had shut his eyes for a while and dozed off in his chair before Sansa's return, but it wasn't enough to keep him up much longer. Finally, he surrendered and closed the book. He returned it to its place on the table behind Sansa's desk, then proceeded to put out the candles around the room.

There were five braziers throughout the tent, but Tyrion only added wood and oil to the three closest to the bed to keep them warm through the night. As he turned from the brazier on Sansa's side of the bed, he saw her face and fiery braided hair peeking out from the mass of blankets and pillows and furs that threatened to consume her. She looked at him with bleary eyes as he put the oil back before giving him a smile. "Jeyne usually does that," she murmured. "Thank you."

She closed her eyes again and buried her face into the white blankets, into the warmth. A smirk touched his face as he walked around to his trunks on his side of the bed. It took him a moment in the dimmed light, but finally he found a sleeping shift. He looked back to the bed, but from this side, he couldn't even tell his wife was among the pillows and blankets, so he stripped there and slid his shift over his head before approaching the bed. He was prepared to scramble up when he noticed a small stool there at the side of the bed. He looked across at the auburn hair of his wife, then back at the stool. He didn't know why this, of all things, brought a twinge to his chest, but it did. So much so he felt a tear trying to form at the corner of one eye. He flicked it away, cursing himself for being ridiculous in his exhaustion before pulling down the bedding and stepping up and crawling into the blissful warmth.

He lay on his back, away from her, staring up at the canopy when it hit him why the stool had made him react so strongly. It was the first time she'd ever done anything to welcome him into her bed. In King's Landing, they shared a bed because they must, but this... this wasn't obligation. This was something else, something just for him. And though he was still extremely skeptical of her sweet words and flirtatious gestures, still suspicious of why and how she'd fled King's Landing, a tiny sliver of hope had pierced into his cynic's heart. A sliver that maybe, just maybe, they might ever feel something real, in spite of every bitterness their former married lives had left him with.

He didn't dare touch her, not then. He didn't dare reach out for her. To do so and risk her pulling away from him was something he didn't think he could manage. So he simply closed his eyes, listening to the crackling of the braziers, the moans of the winds of winter on the canvas, and the soft breathing of his beautiful wife asleep next to him as he breathed deeply of her lavender scent. And within moments, Tyrion Lannister fell asleep into the best rest he'd had in years.

* * *

When he first opened his eyes, he wondered if he were dreaming. There she was, her face not a foot from his, turned into him instead of securely facing outward as she always had in King's Landing. She'll just turn away when she wakes, with a "Sorry, my lord," he thought, but he didn't stop admiring her beauty. They even touched in a way; her legs were angled toward him as she lay on her side, and her kneecaps brushed at his feet. Her bare kneecaps, he noted, but he resisted the urge to explore her with his toes; he may have a reputation as a pervert, but for whatever reason, he'd never been aroused by footplay. He didn't judge it—it just wasn't his particular cup of wine.

He was grateful for her warmth as they lay under the layers of linens and blankets and furs. The braziers had burned low in the night, and the chilled air was brisk on what little of his face wasn't covered by his beard. It was no wonder her face was half-turned into the pillow to warm itself from the cold's bite.

He'd loved watching her sleep in King's Landing. Knowing that she was sleeping peacefully, anyway. She'd had nightmares as she'd laid in bed next to him that had set her to thrashing the sheets around them as she would have different memories come back to haunt her. Sometimes it was moans of "mercy, please," other times simply calling the names of her lost loved ones. When her mind couldn't settle on its own, he'd gently rubbed her shoulder, murmuring "Sansa, Sansa" until she woke. Usually she gasped when reality came back to her, and he'd withdraw his hand. "It was just a nightmare," he'd tell her. "I'm sorry to have woken you, my lord," she'd reply before turning her back to him again. He never told her she spoke aloud in her nightmares. He knew if he did, even if it was in an attempt to comfort her, she would simply repeat her pretty lies. "My father was a traitor. My mother and brother were traitors, too. I am loyal to House Lannister and to the Crown."

But no nightmares marred her sleep early this morning, and her face was peaceful. Her cheek had a faint blush from the warmth of their covers, a touch of the palest pink on porcelain. Her eyelashes fluttered ever so slightly, and he hoped she dreamed of pleasant things. Her lips parted as she gave a sigh, and he wanted to reach out, more than anything, to take her cheek in his palm, to press his lips to hers.

 _She left you,_ he told himself, but even that failed to quell his admiration. He was well acquainted with the shape of her back as he slept; he would not ruin his chance to take in her beautiful face in sleep, her fingers curled into the feather pillow and sheets, grasping lightly to the bed that held her close, he would not disturb her by forcing a kiss upon her, one he knew full we she didn't want.

Dawn approached as their tent lightened, too soon for his liking. In time, he heard the snow-crunched footsteps of servants and soldiers going about their morning duties outside. He closed his eyes. All he wanted to do was stay here in bed with Sansa, the two of them at peace after so many years of running and fighting and pain. Surely they deserved that. When he opened his eyes again, he saw Sansa's eyelids fluttering open. He held his breath, waiting for her to withdraw when she realized how close she was, but she merely squeezed her eyes shut, and stretched out her arm until she touched his chest. His breath caught at the contact.

Her eyes snapped open and she drew the hand back, but not in recoil. "Sorry. I'm used to having more room to stretch," she said with a sheepish smile on her lips, one he couldn't help but return.

"It's quite alright," he said as she rolled away from him just a bit to lie on her back as she stretched her arms up over their pillows rather than outward. She arched her back, and her bust jutted out from under the blankets. Tyrion's mouth fell open against his will as he studied her exquisite shape. He didn't even chide himself for it. Save for men with the tastes of Loras Tyrell, there wasn't another man alive in Westeros who would have reacted in any less a manner of awe.

She finished her stretch, and he sighed, expecting her to continue her movement and leave their bed, but to his surprise, she turned to face him again, her left arm curling under the pillow and her right resting on her side, her fingertips dropping lazily to her stomach. "Good morning, my lord," she greeted.

"Good morning, Sansa. You slept well?" he asked.

She nodded. "And you?" He nodded an affirmative. They lay there in silence for a moment as she studied his face before she spoke again. "Can I ask you something?"

"Have I ever forbidden you to ask questions?"

She smirked at him as she asked, "Why do wear a beard now?"

Tyrion chuckled. "My sweet sister wanted my head, and the beard hid my scar as I made my way to Slaver's Bay to serve Daenerys. Now, well, I've just gotten used to it. Do you like it?"

Sansa wrinkled her nose as she shook her head. "Can't say that I do. It makes you look old. Too old."

"Well, I did just pass my thirty-second nameday not long ago," he reminded her, and she rolled her eyes.

"It's still atrocious. You were never a particularly handsome man to begin with, but now..." she trailed off with a dramatic sigh.

"You wound me, my lady," he quipped in return, and she gave a quiet giggle. "Besides, how else would I keep my face warm in these frigid winter winds?"

"Mmm. Fair point. I can't stand to step outside without my beard," she replied, deadpan, and Tyrion broke out into a deep laugh, an infectious one apparently as she joined him after a moment. Eventually, they quieted, and Sansa sighed. "I love the Winter, but mornings like this make me want to stay in bed all day," she said, her eyes closed as she snuggled into the warmth.

Bravely, Tyrion decided to flirt with his wife of five years. "I'm sure I could keep us occupied if that's your wish." He flashed her what he hoped was a mischievous smile, and not lecherous.

She regarded him for a moment before she rolled her eyes. "Says the man who argued for an annulment last night."

He shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a complicated man."

She shook her head. "No, you're really not," she said with a smile before rolling onto her back, pushing back her covers, and rising from their bed. She took her robe in hand and donned it, and Tyrion couldn't help but watch as she tied it carefully at the waist before going to her vanity to let down her braided hair.

Tyrion squeezed his eyes shut to keep his emotions in check. He knew she was playing a game, but this... this is what he'd wanted all along. This is what he'd wanted from her in King's Landing. Nothing she wasn't prepared to give him willingly, but camaraderie. Companionship. Laughter. Gods, this was all he'd ever wanted, everything he thought he'd never have, since Tysha...

He let the thought die. Tysha may have been his first love, and the only woman to love him from the start, but after the morning he'd just had, he wanted to give Sansa a chance. _Like she gave you a chance_ , a voice in his mind reminded him bitterly, but he shook it away. He would ask her why she'd done it, if she'd poisoned Joffrey, why she'd left him. In time, but not now. He may be playing this close to the chest, but he was still, in fact, playing the game with Sansa. And the next move in the game was not fighting over the past, it was forging an alliance between the two Queens. With a sigh, Tyrion pushed back the covers and stepped down from their bed. He stifled a yawn as he rummaged through his trunks and found a change of smallclothes and a tunic and breeches that went together reasonably well. He took them and changed behind Sansa's dressing screen before settling at the table for the morning.

Her hair was unbraided as she stopped and stood before him, still in her robe. "Sansa?"

She bit her lip as she eyed him, then sat at the chair next to him. "I have something to ask of you." His eyebrows quirked. _Here we go_. "I'm not asking this because you're my husband, or even my friend. I'm asking because you know the job and you'd know if I could handle it."

"I don't—"

"I'd like you to recommend me for the position of Master of Coin once Daenerys takes the Iron Throne." Tyrion considered her very carefully, but she continued before he could interject. "I know you found the job tedious when we were married, but, honestly, I've quite enjoyed dealing in trade here in the North. Of all the things I have to do as Queen, keeping the ledgers and making the numbers make sense is the only thing that _does_ make sense to me all the time. Justice, morality, White Walkers, battle strategy—I never learned these things as a girl, I wasn't prepared for them. I still don't know that I am now, even as I pass judgments. But I _was_ taught how to run a household, and I've found I quite enjoy it on a much larger scale since I've retaken the North. Aside from that, my time with Petyr Baelish taught me how to make the numbers do what I want." She paused, and a dark look passed over her face, but she soon shook it off. "Take a look at my ledgers, if you will. You'll find them in order and, frankly, in better shape than even my father left them."

Tyrion saw pride in her eyes, and he couldn't resist an encouraging smile. _Old habits die hard._ "A woman on the small council? Scandalous."

Sansa swatted away the suggestion. "Cersei was on the small council as Queen Regent for years. Besides, we'll both be helping to put a woman on the Iron Throne soon. Surely a woman serving as Master of Coin isn't too much to ask?"

Tyrion donned a ponderous look. "Wouldn't your title be Mistress of Coin, rather than Master?" he asked glibly, and she narrowed her eyes at him, so he moved on. "Alright, fine. Let's assume you're qualified for the position—and I would want to look at your ledgers to be sure of that—why? You hate King's Landing, Sansa. Why would you want a position that would trap you there? Why not something in Winterfell?" he prodded gently.

Sansa tilted her head before answering. "If I were to go back to Winterfell, Rickon would be of age in a few years. When that day comes, he won't need a regent. Then what would happen? I marry some lord to be an obscure wife." Sansa shook her head. "I love the North, but I don't want that. I... I've learned to play the game, and I've learned to enjoy it," she told him with a rueful smile. "Besides, if we _were_ to remain wed, I'd be in King's Landing with you as Daenerys's Hand, anyway. What would you have me do, work on needlepoint of Lannister lions in the gardens or read stories in the Tower of the Hand all day? I still enjoy those things, and I could have lived everyday like that once, maybe, but now..." she said, trailing off. "And if, well, if you do decide you'd like us to annul, I... I would like something of power. Something of my own. I may be prepared to bend the knee to Daenerys, but that doesn't mean I'm ready to bow out entirely."

She looked down to his hand where it rested on the table and, slowly, she placed her own hand over his. Her fingertips trailed over the back of his hand like fire, and it settled to a smolder as her palm rested lightly over his knuckles. Her eyes locked onto his, and he couldn't look away. "It may be easier for me to ask this of you since I'm your wife, but all I'm really asking for is that you consider giving me the same recommendation you would give to any other high lord who came to you asking for your endorsement of the position with the right qualifications. I'm asking for you to treat me as an equal, as you always have, and not as your lesser simply because I am a woman."

He gave her a considered smile then before he quietly answered her, "Bring me your ledgers. I'll look over them before the negotiations today."

She smiled in earnest and squeezed his hand. "Thank you." With that, she went to her desk and fetched three leather-bound tomes. As she set them on the table in front of them, she explained them very matter-of-factly, so unlike the girl he used to know that a smile played on his lips as she spoke. "The topmost is the war accounts. In this I've included the expenses of feeding, arming, and paying my soldiers, as well as the cost of importing dragonglass. The middle is Winterfell's accounts. They may not be as complete since I've been here rather than directly in Winterfell, so a lot of the expenditures are labelled as 'discretionary,' which Lyanna Mormont has been seeing to as she's acted as regent for Rickon as I've been here at the Wall. But the bottommost ledger details the North in general, and the bulk of the trade through White Harbor to Winterfell and the other Houses. I've tried to make it clear in the margins where profits and assets come from and go, but let me know if you have any questions. Oh," she said, as she stood, and she returned to her desk before coming back and laying a small leather-bound notebook on top of it all. "That's the record of my loan with the Iron Bank and my repayment schedule. You'll see that I'm far ahead of schedule and on track to repay their investment with interest nearly two years early."

"You took a loan with the Iron Bank?" he asked, feeling his eyebrows raise of their own accord. That was a genuinely impressive, and risky, move. Moreover, he was surprised they'd actually agreed to a loan with a woman so young and inexperienced as she.

Sansa nodded. "I sent Ser Davos Seaworth with my terms, copies of my ledgers, and a detailed plan for repayment, and he came back from Braavos to White Harbor with the three ships the gold had bought. How else do you think I improved trade to the North?" she said with a smile, and Tyrion tilted his head at her.

"Impressive."

"Thank you," she said, and for a moment he saw the ghost of the young girl he'd married, who took compliments on her needlework and dancing and singing as if they were as essential as air. But she soon reined in her enthusiasm. "I'll ready for the day. Thank you again, for considering this, Tyrion." She placed her hand over his once more, then turned to leave for her dressing area.

His eyes occasionally flitted to his wife's lovely form behind the screen where she changed, but for the most part, he kept his eyes on her ledgers. Her tidy hand-writing, her precise calculations. He smiled as he noticed a slight waver in her hand at the beginning of the three ledgers that disappeared slowly and then altogether as she became confident in her figures, in her skill.

She hadn't lied. She was more than qualified for the position, certainly more qualified and practiced at it than he'd been when his father had thrust him into the job. He'd made up his mind before she'd even finished being dressed by her handmaiden, who'd come in shortly after Sansa had retreated. She'd given him a dirty look, but continued on to her mistress without a word. _She must have lost someone,_ he deduced. Tyrion closed his wife's meticulous accounts and pushed them aside, his decision made. _This is how he wanted to help her rise. In happiness, in joy, in beauty..._ Yes, he would help Sansa rise. He still wanted answers for himself, but any personal feelings aside, she would be an asset to Daenerys. As Varys so often pointed out, they must _serve the realm._

But in that moment, he knew she was winning him over in spite of himself, and he didn't even care. As she came out in a fierce woolen gray dress with a daring neckline, leatherwork about the bodice with tooled Direwolves, white damask underskirts showing, he'd never been prouder of her.

Every time he thought she'd reached the peak of her strength, she surged forward to surprise him still. When Joffrey beat her as a girl, she rose and stood tall as she took his hand. When set aside for Margaery, she plotted to escape with the Tyrells. When forced to marry him, she carried on and bore no shame upon herself as many women in her place might have done. And now, just when he thought her powerful even as a temporary queen, she'd proven herself worthy of a position and power to build a name and legacy of her own, independent of her family or any husband he could be to her. She was a force unto herself.

 _I am hers, and she is mine_ , he recalled his vows to her in the Sept. He wasn't entirely sure what his vows meant to him anymore, or what Sansa's meant to her, but one thing was for certain: he'd seen enough of Sansa to give her a chance, to give their vows a chance, a far cry from how he'd felt this time the previous day. And in this matter at least, he would, indeed, help her rise, as he'd vowed to himself he would do for her _, from this day until my last day._


	5. Sansa III: To be Feared and Loved

**Thanks for all the reviews! It's awesome to get feedback. One of them in particular (Gracques) had me nodding in agreement: Sansa used to be terrible at numbers, but she also used to be terrible at lying and politics. In my version, after three years at the Vale with Petyr Baelish and two years' practice as Queen in the North, I'm pretty sure Sansa would have a good sense of what was what. Especially since she also would have resumed lessons with a septa and maester as Petyr's bastard daughter and de facto Lady of the Vale after Lysa's death. I know, not likely in GRRM's canon, but I just couldn't resist the idea of Tyrion admitting Sansa would be cleverer and better than him at something; he so rarely does that with anyone when it comes to wits. So I will admit some creative license there. But she'd also be a terrible Queen in the North if she hadn't learned how to produce new revenues to both take back the North and keep it after the fact. She'd be as much a beggar queen as Viserys was a beggar king if Dany showed up and Sansa had nothing. I wanted them to be on much more equal footing (the importance of which you'll start to see in this chapter).**

 **Also, somehow I screwed up the math of Tyrion's age in the last chapter and put him at 30 in 305 AC rather than 32 as he should be, having been born in 273 AC. After triple-checking years/ages like crazy, don't ask me how I messed that up, but I did. Anyway, there's a note on Ch. 4 as well explaining the edit. Sansa's still 18 with her 19th nameday coming up having been born in 286 AC. All this doesn't _really_ make a difference in the grand scheme of things, but like I said in my note on the first chapter, I'm a bit neurotic, so when I find a mistake, it bugs me. Anyway...**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _Chapter 5_

 _Sansa III: To be feared and loved_

They had already broken their fast, and Tyrion was just putting on his boots as Sansa checked her hair in the mirror. She wasn't usually this vain, at least not since coming to the North, but she wanted to present impenetrable perfection to Daenerys Targaryen, to leave no doubt in her ability to be portrayed as a Queen to be feared and loved in her own right.

As she stood, she heard Tyrion give a sigh, and she looked to him. "What?" she asked.

He shook his head. "You look beautiful. As always."

Sansa raised her eyebrows at him. "Should I apologize for that?"

He smirked. "No. It's just a bitter fact for those of us not blessed with that particular gift." He stood and put on his cloak and gloves. Jeyne had left to take Sansa's correspondence to the messengers, so Sansa donned her cloak and gloves alone before looking once more in the mirror. With a subtle nod to herself, she looked away to where Tyrion waited for her at the tent opening.

"My lady," he greeted with a courteous smile, and he proffered his arm to escort her. With a smile, she gently wrapped her gloved fingers around his elbow and forearm before he led the way out of the tent.

Brienne was at her post outside the tent, as was Podrick, and they flanked along either side of them. As they made their way through the camp in silence, Sansa realized she'd forgotten just how slowly her husband walked due to his shortened stride. She also realized she didn't mind it. Where all her walks with Pod and Jon and Brienne through the camp were brisk, moving quickly from one place to another, this was slower, more relaxed; were it warmer, she could almost pretend they were in the gardens of the Red Keep again, going out for a simple leisurely stroll amongst the flowers and greenery to distract themselves from how little they could say to one another.

As they approached the tent where the negotiations were to take place, she wondered if she should release her hand; she didn't want to put off her own men by their seeing how readily she'd welcomed her Lannister husband back into her life. But she also didn't want to offend Tyrion. Fortunately, he seemed to be of a similar mind; just as they reached the entrance, he took her hand from the crook of his elbow, brought her gloved hand to his lips for the briefest of kisses that put a coy smile on her face, and then pulled the flap of the tent back to allow her to enter first.

"Lord Varys," she said as she greeted the eunuch who stood near the entrance observing her assembled Northmen and the commanders of Daenerys's various armies. The men on the two sides of the tables eyed each other warily and spoke to their own in hushed voices, but Sansa was glad there didn't seem to be any open hostility. Not until her Northmen noticed Tyrion's presence as well as her own, that is.

Lord Umber approached her. "The Targaryen girl can keep him as a pet advisor, but does she really expect us to negotiate with a Lannister at the table?" He made no effort to keep his voice down, and she heard voices die down to listen to the exchange. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tyrion stiffen.

Sansa took a breath before responding, and then held Lord Umber's right hand between both of hers. She looked him carefully in his eyes, her gaze holding his. "Lord Tyrion is to be an ally. And you forget that he is still legally my husband. Any insult against him is an insult against myself." Sansa's fingers tightened on the man's hand and missing fingers as she narrowed her eyes. She could hear a pindrop in the tent in the silence during her pause. "If I remember the tale correctly, Robb's direwolf took your fingers when you raised sharp steel against him. The same blood runs through my veins. Rest assured that I can think of a similar punishment should you bring sharp words against me or my husband again." She patted the back of his hand and smiled before releasing him and turning to the Glover boy acting as squire to today's meeting. The boy hastily removed her cloak, his eyes wary. Her eyes flicked to Tyrion's, and she saw his eyes wide in surprise at her defense, but the corner of his mouth twitched at her before he turned away to take his place among Daenerys's people.

As Sansa found her seat at the center of the right-hand side of the long table, Jon entered with Ghost shadowing him. Daenerys's people watched carefully the great white beast that stood as tall as any man in that tent. As Jon took off his cloak upon entering and warmed his hands by the brazier, Ghost came to her right side. He bowed his head, and Sansa scratched behind his ears, eliciting a lazy groan from her brother's companion. As she usually did when sharing a moment with her brother's direwolf, Sansa wondered what Lady might have been like, had she not been killed when she was still barely more than a pup. What a fierce thing, she would have been. But Kingsroad or no, Joffrey never would have suffered Sansa's direwolf to live in King's Landing once her father was killed. Lady's death was written the moment Sansa accepted to go south with her father. But Ghost was of the North and had stayed in the North. He would endure in the North.

Tyrion was speaking to Lord Varys, but he was also watching her every now and then. Jon finally took his seat at her right and joined in scratching Ghost behind his other ear. Ghost's eyes closed lazily in contentment. He may have been a terrifying thing to others and still wild in every other way, but Sansa and Jon knew he was a big softy for a good ear scratch. "You threatened to have Umber's tongue torn out?"

"Oh, I was fairly vague on my threat. But if that was his impression, well, I don't think he'll forget my warning." Sansa gave a satisfied smirk.

"You scare me sometimes, Sansa, you know that?" She looked at Jon with her smirk still on her lips and said nothing. She wouldn't do it. She knew she wouldn't do it. A memory came back to her of a walk with Tyrion in the gardens of King's Landing.

"What are you doing?" she'd asked as he muttered the names of two men who had passed them, laughing at the odd couple she and Tyrion made.

"I have a list," he'd replied.

"'A list of people you mean to kill?"

"For laughing at me? Do I look like Joffrey to you? No, death seems a bit extreme. _Fear_ of death, on the other hand..."

Sansa had remembered that well. Fear of death was quite effective. Given that she did have a record of killing those who deserved it, and, as far as anyone knew, without remorse, her threats were taken more seriously than most by women her age. Of course, her ability to lie convincingly and unnerve men twice her age and size didn't hurt, either.

At last, Daenerys entered. Her entourage rose from their seats until they had taken their place. Sansa looked to her men still standing and indicated for them to take their seats. They did, but Daenerys remained standing, looking curiously at her.

After a long moment, Sansa asked, "Is something wrong?"

"You don't rise for your Queen?"

Sansa's eyebrows shot up and a smirk came to her face. "If I recall correctly, I'm a Queen in my own right here in the North, and I have not bent the knee yet. So no, I do not rise for you."

Sansa was curious what Tyrion's face would read like, but through the long silence that held the room in tension, Sansa remained calm with her eyes locked on her Targaryen counterpart.

After a while, Daenerys returned Sansa's smile, recognizing a kindred will and stubbornness. As she made to sit at last, and her men followed suit, she asked, " _Yet_. So you do intend to bend the knee?"

"Unquestionably. The last King in the North before my brother bent the knee to Aegon and his dragons, and he'd come from a dynasty of Kings in the North and Kings of Winter for thousands of years before him. I'm not so arrogant as to assume my relatively brief tenure as Queen is in any better a position to defy a similar threat."

Daenerys considered her words before granting a nod. "Lord Tyrion told me you were cleverer than you portrayed, but he never said you were particularly wise."

Sansa held back a derisive laugh. She hoped she wouldn't offend Tyrion with her words, but she couldn't parse them for his benefit, not in front of the Queen, not in front of her men. "With all due respect to my lord husband, I was thirteen. He barely knew me any better from the pathetic little dove I presented myself as to the rest of his family as they held me captive. I'm not surprised your impression of me is inaccurate. It's five years outdated and was never a faithful rendering to begin with."

Daenerys smiled at that. "So, to our proper business, I suppose. The alliance. I am to march North with my dragons to seek out and defeat the White Walkers once and for all. What is your offer?"

"For the past two years, I have been importing as much obsidian as I've been able from the mines near Norvos through the ports of Lorath and Braavos. With it, I've been able to arm my Northmen, the Knights of the Vale, the Wildlings, and the men of the Night's Watch. Since learning of your coming and the details of your armies, I've also had my blacksmiths hard at work forging obsidian-edged Arakhs for your Dothraki and spear heads for your Unsullied. There are enough knives to arm your Second Sons from among the other traditional Westerosi weapons already crafted for my men."

Daenerys shook her head. "I intended for my Dothraki to remain at the Wall. They're not accustomed to this cold, let alone going further North."

"Then we are at an impasse already," Sansa said, raising her hands to lay on the table in front of her, still folded gently. "Forgive me, but I am not ignorant of the savageries of the Dothraki. They may follow you, but I cannot allow you to leave them at the Wall to become restless while you march North. I cannot allow them to savage the North and its people while their Khaleesi leaves them for months, maybe a year or longer."

Daenerys's head tilted back and her nostrils flared. Sansa decided to pursue her other logic in sending the Dothraki north. "Aside from them being unwelcome in the North without you, they would be useless here on the Wall. Dothraki strength is derived from their horses, from meeting the foe out in an open field. You will not find the White Walkers in a stronghold, you will find them where they are most vulnerable to the Dothraki ways of war. They will be a great asset to you in the North. I have the furs and provisions to assist you in sending them North, if you require it, and I would happily provide it."

Tyrion tapped at Daenerys's arm, and he whispered in her ear. "And what is your vision for my Unsullied? Would you have them North of the Wall as well?"

"No," Sansa answered. "True, they wouldn't be of much use behind the Wall, but the Unsullied do not sack cities when taking them. Of all your armies, the Unsullied should be held in reserve until needed for the march South. Surely that is why you acquired them in the first place?"

Daenerys gave a grudging tilt of the head. "It is why I liberated them, yes. But what of your part in all of this? What of your contribution to this alliance beyond obsidian?"

"The Wildlings follow Tormund Giantsbane," Sansa gestured to the large red-headed man a few seats down from her. "And to some extent my brother, as well. They know what's North of the Wall, they know how to survive the real Winter. Aside from their battle prowess, they will be essential to adapting your camp to survive the long cold. I also intend to send my brother and a good portion of my Northmen with you. They are hardy men, and they will do well in the cold. They also know that, should they fail, it will be their families and lovers and homes that will be destroyed by the White Walkers first. They're well-motivated to see the task through to the end.

"As for me, I will remain here at the Wall with the remainder of my Northmen and the Knights of the Vale to hold the Wall. My responsibility is to my men, but I also have responsibilities to see the common people of the North through the Winter, as well as coordinate with my allies in the South to protect the Riverlands and the Vale from the Lannister and Tyrell forces. I can't do that North of the Wall. But my men will follow Jon. He may not share my name, but he shares my father's blood, and my men will serve him well under your expedition. Save for a few of each order of Rangers, Builders, and Stewards for each of the castles, I believe the majority of the men of the Night's Watch intend to go North with you, as well." She gestured to Edd, who sat at the end of the table, and Edd confirmed the supposition with a nod.

Daenerys considered Sansa's words before responding. "I see the logic in your division of responsibilities, but surely this alliance should be a bit more equal in bearing the burden northward?"

Sansa's eyebrows shot up, and she leaned forward. "If things were equal, _you_ would have taken on the massive financial burden of importing obsidian for the last two years and held your men fast at the Wall with no end in sight of Winter or danger. And, if we're being frank, I do not claim the title of Protector of the Realm. Surely if either of us should put in more effort to earning that title, it should be you?" Ghost began to growl lightly over Sansa's shoulder, but she stroked his chest, and he calmed.

Daenerys ignored her barbed words. "What of your contribution going South?"

Sansa nodded. "Going South is where our real contribution comes in. After all our men are south of the Wall, I have stockpiled provisions for us to winter at Winterfell until the thaw. My Northmen will return to their homes to care for their families, but when the time comes, they will converge on Winterfell and rejoin us headed South. My Uncle Ser Brynden Tully has the men of the Riverlands garrisoned at strategic points there and even into the borders of the Vale. He will keep it secure as we mobilize and, undoubtedly, as Lannister and Tyrell forces move to meet us."

"All of your men will come with me?" Daenerys asked.

"Every last one. My Northmen and my cousin Robert's Knights of the Vale all. The men of the Night's Watch will remain in the North, of course, and I cannot speak for the Wildlings. Their condition of being allowed South of the Wall was to fight North of it when the time came, but I cannot assure you they will march South with you. That's between you and them, I'm afraid. But that's also an issue for another day.

"And, as aforementioned, once we help you take the South, I will bend the knee in King's Landing. Is there anything else you would ask of me?" Sansa inquired.

Daenerys smiled. "That should suffice. Though I suppose I could now ask the same of you?"

Sansa nodded. "I have granted a few knighthoods and would like you to confirm them once you take the Iron Throne. Here is a list," Sansa said, taking the scroll from Jon and handing it to the Glover boy, who walked it around the table to Daenerys. Sansa looked at Jon fondly before continuing. "And as reward for his service to the realm in so many ways, I would ask that you legitimize my half-brother Jon Snow as Jon Stark and grant him the hold, lands, and titles accompanying the Dreadfort."

"Sansa?" Jon muttered, but she just smiled. It was her surprise gift to him.

"He will not be in line to inherit Winterfell, as that will fall to my younger brother Rickon, but he and his heirs will hold the Dreadfort—or whatever he'd like to rename it, hopefully—until the end of time."

Daenerys looked to Tyrion before looking back to her. "The Dreadfort is the keep of House Bolton, is it not?"

Sansa fixed a smirk on her lips. "I think you'll find there is no more House Bolton, North or South. After their betrayal of my family at the Twins and their torture of my younger brother before I retook Winterfell, I made sure the last of the Bolton bloodline was scourged from the face of Westeros. Believe me when I say no one will contest its granting to my brother." She looked at Tyrion, who looked questioningly at her, but she coolly looked back to Daenerys. _A Queen to be feared and loved in her own right_. Yes, that was Sansa.

"Your father helped the Usurper Robert Baratheon to betray my family. Should I scourge yours as well?" Daenerys said nonchalantly.

Sansa wasn't fazed. "Because of your father and brother, my grandfather was burned alive, my uncle choked to death, and my aunt kidnapped and raped and killed. I don't think it's betrayal if it's justified. Besides, if you can forget Tywin Lannister's crimes against your family, I think you can forgive Ned Stark's." Sansa's gaze flickered pointedly to Tyrion before returning to the Queen.

Daenerys smiled. "I like you, Sansa Stark."

"I do seem to have that effect on people," Sansa replied dryly.

Daenerys laughed, and Sansa returned it with a smile. She looked at Jon with her eyebrow quirked upward and he returned her optimistic grin.

"Very well. After I've taken the Iron Throne, Jon Snow will be Jon Stark, Lord of the Dreadfort. Is there anything else you would ask?"

Sansa paused for a moment before looking to Tyrion, and he spoke before she did. "Queen Sansa and I spoke this morning about a placement for her on your small council after she's bent the knee," he said as Daenerys turned to look at him. Daenerys looked between the two of them for a moment before returning her attention to Tyrion, and he continued. "Given her great skill with revitalizing the trade in the North in spite of Winter, as well as managing its assets and even a loan from the Iron Bank, I believe she'd be well-suited to the post of Master of Coin. Or Mistress of Coin. She and I disagree on the semantics of her possible future title." Tyrion gave her a cheeky grin, and Sansa couldn't help but shake her head minutely and roll her eyes at him. "She allowed me to look over her ledgers, and as someone who's held the post in King's Landing myself, I assure you she'd be a tremendous asset to you in helping to rebuild the Seven Kingdoms from the wars of the past seven years and the war yet to come."

Sansa wanted to hug him for that. No one had ever given her such a testimonial. But she kept her composure, only allowing a slight smile to curl up the corners of her lips.

"And you want this position?" Daenerys asked, turning to Sansa.

"Yes, Your Grace, I do." Sansa looked the Targaryen in the eyes until she answered.

"Done. With that I believe we have an alliance."

"As do I," Sansa agreed, and she smiled. With that, she and her men rose, and Daenerys and her men did the same. The two Queens walked to the end of the table where they shook hands, sealing the alliance between the two forces. Sansa looked to the end of the table where Maester Samwell Tarly was writing down the terms of the alliance. "Maester Sam," Sansa called. "Please make several copies of the agreement. I'd like them sent to the Houses of the North, the Riverlands, and the Vale, as well as one directly to Cersei Lannister." She looked at Tyrion, who stood a few steps behind Daenerys. "I think your sister just might drown herself in wine at this news." Tyrion gave a chuckle, and Sansa returned her attention to Daenerys.

"You comport yourself well as Queen having been raised only as a Lady," Daenerys whispered to her as they took each other's arms.

"And you for having never stepped foot on Westerosi soil since you left as a babe." Sansa pivoted to face her. "I can only hope our alliance and your regency creates a lasting peace as Aegon's Conquest did 300 years ago."

"As do I." Daenerys smiled, and Sansa returned one of her own.

Maester Sam approached them. "Your Grace, Your Grace," he said to each of them. "The first treatise is ready if you'd like to sign it. I can have the notices for the other Houses copied by tonight, and you can each sign them then to be sent out on the morrow, if that's alright?"

"That suits me," Sansa told him, and she took the quill on the end of the table, dipped it into the ink pot, bent over the table slightly, and signed her elegant name where Sam had already filled in each of their titles. She straightened and offered the quill to Daenerys. The Dragon Queen took it, signed her name with a flourish, and they shook hands again. The men in the room applauded and shook hands with each other.

Sansa turned to face the men and announced, "There will be a celebration feast at Castle Black tonight in honor of our newly struck alliance, and all the men not on Watch duty will receive extra ale tonight. Those on duty will receive it tomorrow." The men cheered and thumped the table in approval. "Ale and whores. The way to any man's heart," Sansa muttered to Daenerys, and the fair-skinned white-blond girl gave a tinkling laugh that Sansa joined in.

Having made her announcement, Sansa said her farewells to her men, and to Daenerys and Lord Varys. As she went to claim her cloak, Tyrion followed her. "Well done, Sansa."

"Thank you." She suppressed a smile, trying not to show too much fondness for him in front of her men.

"May I escort you?" he asked, indicating for the Glover boy which cloak was his.

"You may." Sansa waited for Tyrion to don his cloak and gloves before he opened the flap of the tent and let her through.

The feast that evening was a merry affair; the Northmen had had little to celebrate for so long that an alliance with a Queen almost certain to conquer the Iron Throne over Cersei Lannister was cause for much celebration and debauchery. For the most part, Sansa paid her courtesies, but she'd rather lost her appetite for feasts and drunkards and ribald songs after so many of them in King's Landing. She left quietly, and Podrick met her at the gate of Castle Black. He carried a thick stack of parchment. "The treatises, my lady. Maester Sam gave them to me to have you sign. I'll get them to Queen Daenerys once you're done."

"Thank you, Podrick. I'll take care of it once we're at my pavilion."

Podrick nodded before adding, "Also, the escort from Riverrun arrived just after sunset. I told them they could release him over to me, but they said they'd prefer to hand him over to you themselves."

"That's quite alright. Are they all comfortably situated after their journey?" she asked, and Podrick nodded. "Good. I'll let them all rest and summon them on the morrow."

"Very good, my lady. Also, another letter from Sunspear has arrived for you," he told her, handing her the letter sealed with a wax three-headed dragon, anticipating her exasperation.

"There's only so many ways I can tell him no," Sansa snapped, though not at Podrick. She took the letter and tucked it into the inside pocket of her cloak. "I thank the gods Daenerys isn't so thick-headed and insistent on her own way as her nephew seems to be. Clearly, I chose the right Targaryen to back."

"I would tend to agree with you, my lady, but mostly because Queen Daenerys has three dragons and a large army, whereas Aegon only has a few thousand Dornishmen," Podrick said with a smirk, and that brought a smile back to Sansa's face, and he continued to accompany her through the wintry night.

There was no wind, but a gentle snow fell. Sansa couldn't help but indulge herself; today had been a good day. She took down her hood and allowed the snowflakes to settle in her hair, her eyelashes, to slowly melt as they fell upon her cheeks. Just before they entered her tent, she paused and closed her eyes, tilting her head up to the night's sky. She'd proved her mettle as Queen in the North during the negotiations, earned her right to that title. Yes, today had been a good day.

Sansa took off her cloak and boots and poured herself a cup of wine as Podrick laid the treatises on her desk. "Will there be anything else, my lady?"

"Make sure Lord Tyrion doesn't drink too much," was all she said before she took a sip. A bit hypocritical, she knew, but she said it all the same.

"I'll try, my lady," Podrick said, and Sansa chuckled at that.

"That's all I can ask of you, I suppose. Goodnight, Podrick."

"Goodnight, Lady Sansa."

Sansa signed the treatises, read for a bit, and then readied herself for bed. Bored as she waited for Tyrion to return, she went to her cloak and pulled out Aegon Targaryen's latest love letter. Only a few years ago, she might have swooned at his romantic prose written for her from afar. Now she scoffed and practically wanted to wretch at his nonsense. "... _tales of your beauty have spanned even the southernmost reaches of Westeros_..." she muttered, reading part of it aloud. "Gods, he sounds like Joffrey swooning after Margaery after the Blackwater... _Lord Tyrion is a kind and good man and mentioned that your marriage was wanted by neither of you. He would free you to pursue your heart's wishes, to pursue happiness and love with a man more befitting of a Queen of Love and Beauty such as yourself._ Seven Hells, does he not realize how things ended last time a Targaryen Prince pursued a Lady of House Stark?!" she exclaimed to no one but herself as she shoved the letter into her desk drawer and slammed it shut. When she'd calmed down, she would later write a response beyond "piss off," but it wouldn't do for Tyrion to see the letter in any case. He seemed hesitant enough of her as it was.

She drained her cup of wine and was about to put out the candles just as Tyrion came in the tent, quite red-faced and smiling from ear to ear. "My lady," he said with a sloppy bow. Sansa couldn't help but chuckle, her frustrations with Aegon's letter all but forgotten.

"I take it Pod failed in his duties to keep you from drinking too much."

"Yes, I'm afraid he did. But rest assured, he did indeed make a valiant effort on multiple occasions." Tyrion stumbled a bit as he made for the chaise to remove his boots. Sansa smiled and helped him with the clasp on his cloak. "Thank you, Sansa." His hand grabbed clumsily at hers as it lingered at his shoulder, and she held his grasp for a moment before letting go.

"Are you coming to bed now?" she asked as he stood.

"Can't really see straight to read, so I suppose I am," he said with a smile. Sansa returned it before proceeding to put out the candles and add wood and oil to the braziers. By the time she was done, it was a dim light. She disrobed and climbed into the warm bed.

As she climbed atop it, she saw Tyrion absent-mindedly stripping down to his smallclothes on his side. Sansa blushed and lay down; it had been a long time since he'd been so brazen about his nakedness in front of her, and again, that had only ever been when he was drunk. Sansa supposed he was ashamed of his body around her, and after what she'd said to him on their wedding night, she could scarce blame him. Even in King's Landing, she'd wanted to apologize for her harsh insult, but she'd never found the right words. He may have repulsed her on their wedding night, but it had been a long time since she'd felt that way about him.

She heard Tyrion chuckle about something quietly as he climbed under the covers, and Sansa decided to engage him. "Something funny?" she asked quietly.

"Hmm. Your brother could barely stomach wine last time I knew him on his way to the Wall, what, seven years ago? He has quite the appetite for it now, though," Tyrion laughed.

"Well, with me for a drinking partner, you can hardly blame it all on him," she said, turning to face him. Tyrion turned to face her in the middle of the bed as well. "I think we've had more than enough to drink about," she added.

"I suppose you have," he said quietly.

She looked at his lips, hiding amidst his beard, and realized she wasn't as brave as she thought she was.

"Tyrion?" she asked.

"Hmm?" was his sleepy answer. His eyes were closed, and a satisfied smile was on his lips. When she didn't answer right away, he looked at her curiously. "Sansa?" She looked in his eyes, and he looked confused.

Her face was so close to his, she could smell the wine and ale on his breath. Steeling herself, she craned her neck to plant a kiss on his cheek just under his eye, where there was no beard. Her lips lingered for a moment before she drew back, wondering how he'd react, and she saw a look of awe on his face. After a moment, he reached out, gently resting his palm on her cheek, and his blunt fingers traced over her cheekbone more gently than she thought possible. With a smile, she covered his hand with hers, curling her fingers to lace with his. Lightly, she took their hands from her cheek and placed them on the pillow between them. She softly brushed her lips against his fingertips before turning her head to rest her forehead against their entwined hands and closing her eyes.

"Goodnight, Tyrion," she murmured.

"Goodnight, Sansa." His voice was little more than a husky whisper, and something in it urged a warm shiver to run through her, and though the feeling unsettled her, it wasn't unwelcome.

Sleepily, she wished she could have felt this way lying next to him in their marriage bed in King's Landing. She didn't think she could have, scared as she had been, but as sleep worked its way over her, she found herself comforted by his presence, his warmth, the sound of his breathing, the connection they shared through their entwined hands. She felt safe, a feeling she would have given anything for those five years ago. She wanted to mention it to him, that he made her feel safe, but sleep was claiming her, and drowsily, Sansa fell into a slumber holding her husband's hand.


	6. Tyrion III: A Singularly Cruel Woman

**Meant to get this up earlier today but was super busy all day. Just finished watching "Battle of the Bastards". Seven Hells(!). Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

 _Chapter 6_

 _Tyrion III: A Singularly Cruel Woman_

As Tyrion realized he was waking, he screwed his eyes shut, desperate to hang on to what had been the best dream he'd had in months. He could still almost feel the tingle of Sansa's lips on his cheek, the caress of her hand holding his, the warmth of lying so close to her. He didn't normally dream this pleasantly while drunk, if he dreamed at all, but Gods, he wanted to hang onto this dream.

But his mind was waking, whether he willed it or no, and he started to feel reality sinking in. The bed, the covers... the warm damp of breath on his chest?

Tyrion's eyes snapped open, and his eyes adjusted to the dim morning light of the Northern dawn filtering through the canvas of their tent before he saw Sansa's unmistakable auburn tresses braided and peeking out from under his chin. Her face was hidden, nestled against his chest under his beard, her knees once again knocked against his legs, and her arms wrapped around herself as she curled into him. His left hand had wrought its way into that intoxicating curve at her waist, and he gave a sigh as he registered the way his fingers melted into her. She was just as close as he'd dreamed.

Except, apparently, it hadn't been a dream. He wracked his brain, trying to remember what had been said, but it was all a blur. He couldn't remember any particular romance or any suave words on his part. Just being drunk and getting into bed in a haze, and her reaching up to kiss his cheek, taking his hand in hers. But that couldn't be right—could it?

As he tried to recall the previous night, she gave a shiver, and understanding flooded through him. She was merely cold, huddled to him for warmth, as the blankets had pushed down to her hips sometime in the night. Gently, he lifted his hand from her waist and lifted the blankets at her hip to draw them up to her shoulder. She took a deep breath at the dragging motion, but she made no other move to wake.

As he tucked the blanket about her shoulder, he hesitated. Should he return his hand to her waist, or keep it to himself? But she gave another shiver and rolled into him ever so slightly, and so he tentatively put his arm over her, moving his hand up and down her side gently under the blankets, feeling the cooled flesh under her thin shift finally warming after a moment of his tender ministrations. Just as her shivering stopped, her face shifted so that her lips just barely touched the skin and chest hair exposed at the neck of his nightshirt. Her nose trailed along his skin, and he bit the inside of his cheek to subdue his twitching cock. As peacefully as she slept, he certainly didn't want to scare her off upon waking with a raging hardness against her belly.

Tyrion considered withdrawing from her now, to spare her embarrassment, but she was so curled up to his warmth, he was sure she'd wake anyway were he to move away. With resignation, he decided to enjoy their closeness for as long as he could.

The sounds of activity pervaded the morning silence, and Tyrion knew it was a matter of time before Sansa roused. She took a deep breath, and he closed his eyes as she let out a sigh against his chest. Her shoulders tensed and she pressed her hand out against his chest as she had the morning previous, and then he felt her draw back to look at him. He opened his eyes to see her, waiting for her to recoil.

"Good morning," she said with a sheepish grin. "I must have gotten cold last night."

"It's quite alright. It was certainly brisk." Tyrion tried to read her face, trying to understand, but he felt her against him. She was tense, nervous at their closeness, he could feel that in her, but she wasn't making a movement away from him, she was just... there.

"How are you feeling?" she asked. He frowned at her for a moment, not quite sure how to respond, when she clarified. "You were quite drunk last night. Are you alright this morning?"

He smirked. "I can drink far more than that and be fine. It's a gift." She smiled at his response, and he studied her, still confused.

Her smile faded until she quietly asked, "Do you want me to—?"

She started to withdraw from him, but he desperately dug his fingers into her hips. "No, I... no, Sansa." She paused and considered him before he continued. "I just... you've never wanted to be this close before. I thought _you_ would want to have distance."

Sansa looked at him for a moment before she shook her head with a smirk. "You're warm. Only a fool in winter would give that up." Hesitantly, she closed her eyes and lowered her head to his chest again. He could feel the tension leaving her, her body relaxing under his fingers. Tyrion took shallow breaths, fearful of moving too much, fearful of making her uncomfortable.

She stayed there, nuzzled against his chest for a few minutes before she drew back. When she did, he could tell she was studying his face. Slowly, she moved her hand to touch his brow, and it took him a moment to realize she was tracing his scar.

"It's healed well," she said in a near whisper.

Tyrion tilted his head. "It's been almost six years."

She gave a hum of agreement as she traced her thumb back up his scar before drawing her hand back into herself. "Maybe Margaery was right after all."

"Right about what?" He was never certain of Margaery's motivations in helping him with Sansa, but he'd appreciated them in King's Landing all the same. He couldn't deny he was curious to hear what other help she might have given him with his wife unbeknownst to him at the time.

Sansa sighed. "It was just after we were married and... well, I—I wasn't all that happy. I think we both know that." She frowned, but Tyrion caught her gaze.

"It's alright. We do." He gave her a small smile, encouraging her to go on, and she returned it.

"Anyway, she was telling me to make the best of my situation, that if I looked carefully, I could try to find you handsome even with the scar. Especially with the scar, she'd added," Sansa said, and she gave a laugh. "I didn't listen at the time, but now..." Sansa trailed off, and Tyrion raised a brow at her.

"But you still don't like the beard?" Sansa wrinkled her nose and shook her head with a laugh in her throat. Tyrion smiled and soothingly palmed a circle at her waist. "Oh, Lady Margaery! Maybe I married the wrong one of Joffrey's betrothals?" he mused jokingly.

Sansa narrowed her eyes at him and rolled her hips into him to jam a knee into his legs. "Rude," she chided with a smile.

He knew she meant the gesture menacingly, even if mockingly, but her hip had bumped right into his groin, and the contact set his cock to twitching again. Even better, her leg remained jutted out, causing a lovely friction on his inner thighs. He closed his eyes for a moment as he held in a groan, but when he reopened them, he knew what Sansa had seen. He decided not to lie about it. "My lady, feel free to do that again, anytime you like."

A pink blush crept up the neckline of Sansa's shift to come to a rest at her cheeks as she regarded him, but then she looked down to his chest. His fears that he'd said too much were confirmed when she pulled away, pink-faced, but she didn't leave him like he'd expected, only enough to roll onto her stomach beside him, her arms propping her up away from the pillows. Her auburn hair while still braided was messy, with stray hairs framing her beautiful face. She rolled her shoulders before a smile found its way to her lips, and the flush receded.

"I still can't believe how well yesterday went," she whispered.

"You did well," he told her, both glad and disappointed of her change of topic. "You certainly held your ground against Daenerys, and believe me when I say I know better than most just how stubborn and immovable she can be."

Sansa shined her smile at him, and he couldn't help but return her enthusiasm. "I'd been so nervous to face her, after hearing tales of her conquering Slaver's Bay, the Dothraki, her alliance with the Iron Born. I was so afraid. I had to work so hard to keep my voice from shaking."

"You hid it well," he told her, and bravely, he laid his hand gently on the small of her back to rub soothing circles just above the rise of her curvaceous backside. Momentarily, Tyrion's thoughts meandered to running his hand South, giving her beautiful arse a nice squeeze, but he chided himself and returned his attention to her. At his touch, he saw her eyes had closed, and the corners of her lips tugged upwards.

"I wish I could be there to see the look on your sister's face when she reads about the alliance," she said, and she looked at him. "But I suppose we'll see her again soon enough."

"Too soon, probably," he murmured, still enjoying the feeling of his fingers dancing across Sansa's shift. He damned the lightweight thing for keeping his fingers from her bare flesh.

Sansa looked down then, and he saw a frown touch at her lips. "Sansa?" he asked, pausing his hand.

When she answered, her voice was barely a whisper. "I still can't believe what your family did to you. Can't imagine how I'd feel if _I_ had to go through something like that."

 _The trial_. Tyrion had been too afraid these past days to bring it up himself, but here she was, doing it for him.

"We both hated Joffrey, but surely your family _had_ to have known that it would have been far too despicable for either of us to kill a man at his own wedding."

His breath caught in his chest, and a wave of relief radiated out from him. _She didn't do it_. The thought replayed in his mind over and over before he could respond.

"Well, for you, it might have been justice," Tyrion said with a grin. "But they knew I didn't do it. My father even intended for me to take the Black when found guilty by trial."

Recognition lit up in Sansa's eyes and she looked at him. "Gods, he really didn't want you to have Casterly Rock, did he?"

He smirked at her cleverness, at how quickly she'd come to that realization. "No, he did not."

"Well, we'll show him. We'll show all of them," she said quietly, and she gave a smile that was vaguely terrifying, but not directed at him. It was malicious, vengeful, a look he'd never seen on Sansa's face, one she wore much better than his sister ever had. It might have disturbed Tyrion once, had he seen it on her face in King's Landing, but after everything that had happened, every hurt and injustice the two had borne separately and together in the past five years, seeing this look that promised of pain and revenge for others, it only made Tyrion want her more.

After a moment, her smile faltered, and her eyes fell in thought before meeting his. "You don't know who did it, do you?"

There was something pitying in her tone, and he resented it. "You do?"

She nodded. "Petyr Baelish has already paid for his part in it all, I made sure of that."

"You killed him." It was a statement, not a question. A shadow of the smile he'd just seen returned to her lips, and he knew it to be fact. "How did he die?"

"Not well," was her answer. It was all the answer he was going to get for now, it seemed.

"His part..." Tyrion mused. "Who else?"

"Olenna Tyrell," Sansa breathed. "I admired her once, but I can never forgive her for framing me, for letting you be charged with Joffrey's murder. No. The only luck left to her will be if old age kills her before we do."

 _We._ He liked the way Sansa said the word _we_ , especially as it pertained to vengeance. But then Tyrion caught a turn of phrase. "Framing you?"

Sansa looked away for a moment before nodding. "Do you remember the hairnet I wore, with amethysts?" Tyrion really didn't given how drunk he'd tried to be on that day, but he nodded, prompting her to go on. "It was a gift. When we were making our rounds saying our courtesies—well, I was saying our courtesies while you drank as much as you could without being indecent," she quipped, and Tyrion smirked at that. "When we saw Olenna, she said the wind had been at my hair, and I bowed my head as she adjusted my hairnet and tucked the strands back in. After all was said and done, I took out the hairnet, and a stone was missing. I realized after a moment it wasn't an amethyst in that particular setting, but the poison that killed Joffrey. Lady Olenna had plucked it out of the setting. I don't know how or when she poisoned him, but she did it. I know she did."

Tyrion shook his head. "Why?" He could come up with reasons aplenty for any man or woman to want Joffrey dead, but none strong enough for Lady Olenna to act on it.

She looked at him with something akin to sorrow. "If your favorite granddaughter was to marry a monster, so called by his previous betrothed," Sansa gave a rueful smirk as she referred to herself. "And you feared for her, would you not be inclined to kill him so that she might marry his younger brother, someone of a kinder, gentler, and more malleable nature?" Sansa shook her head. "I can't even blame her for doing it. Were it me and my mother were in a position to kill Joffrey, knowing full well what he was, I don't doubt she'd have done it. Family before duty and honor, after all."

"What I can't forgive Olenna for is framing us. For that, she _will_ pay. The North Remembers."

"And a Lannister always pays his debts," Tyrion added, and they regarded each other with smiles that promised retribution.

After a moment, Sansa looked up at the lightening canopy, then back at him, leaned over to kiss him on the cheek, and pronounced, "We really should get out of bed."

He narrowed his eyes playfully as he brought his hand up to trail his fingers along her arm as it supported her. "You tease me with a kiss and then say we should go. You're a singularly cruel woman, Sansa Stark."

His Northern coquette of a wife merely smirked as she turned away from him with a particular bounce, pushed back the covers, stepped out of their bed, donned her robe, and went to her vanity as always, still smiling.

Tyrion rested his head back on the pillows, trying not to think about how much he wanted her. In his mind, he went through a list of the names of the Targaryen dragons of old in order of when they were hatched. By the time he'd finished, his cock was safely flaccid, and he felt he could get out of bed without Sansa noticing anything amiss.

With a sigh, he rolled himself out of bed and stepped down, gathered some clothes, and stepped behind the screen to change. Jeyne had entered the tent and was helping to brush out Sansa's hair by the time he came out from the screen, and she was whispering something into Sansa's ear.

"Yes, I'll have you bring him here this morning. Help me dress, then fetch them, if you could."

"Yes, my lady."

Sansa smiled at him as she passed him on her way to her trunks, and Tyrion nodded at Jeyne respectfully as he passed her on his way to the table, hoping that eventually his wife's handmaiden wouldn't look at him as if she wanted to murder him in his sleep.

"What color do you reckon for today?" He heard Sansa ask Jeyne, and Tyrion decided to continue their playful morning repartee.

"If you're looking for suggestions, you always look stunning in your mother's colors," he called over to her as he picked up an apple to eat before breakfast was served.

He looked over to the screen, and Sansa leaned her head and a bare shoulder out from behind it. "Blue it is." She disappeared, and Tyrion suppressed a chuckle.

When she came out, Tyrion was transfixed by the sight of her. "Is that...?"

"No. It's not the same dress you gave me," she answered, but Tyrion could have sworn it was. All the detailing was the same. But then he picked out that it was made of heavier materials, the fit was different as she'd grown, the neckline was a bit more daring. "I must admit, I was so fond of the dress you'd had made for me, I recreated it when I found some time at Winterfell while taking care of Rickon before Jon and I came to the Wall. It's wool and velvet now, rather than the pretty damasks you'd chosen, but most of the details are the same." She gave him a smile. "Do you like it?"

Tyrion nodded. "You look just as stunning in this as you did in the old one on your nameday." As she approached the table to sit next to him, he took her hand and brought it to his lips. "You always look stunning."

Sansa turned to Jeyne and said, "Go ahead and bring him here. I can braid my own hair."

With a nod, Jeyne picked up her cloak and left, and Sansa sat down and began a simple up-do of two braids at the sides of her head that merged into a large loose braid that flowed down her back. She tied it off with a gold ribbon that played up the streaks that he sometimes discerned from the auburn. She looked to where he'd been watching her. "Everything look alright?" She turned her head from side to side for him to see, and he merely nodded.

"Good. I'd like to make a good impression on what little of your family will remain after the war is done." Tyrion looked at her questioningly before she continued. "You didn't speak fondly of much of your family when we were in King's Landing, but you did speak fondly for your Aunt Genna. After the Red Wedding, she and her husband Emmon Frey were granted Riverrun. When my uncle Ser Brynden Tully took it back, I requested that she and her family not be harmed. Someone has to take over the Twins once my men get ahold of Walder Frey and his line." Sansa smirked menacingly at that, looking somewhere over his shoulder, before she continued. "Anyway, when I heard you were coming, I summoned her grandson, Tywin Frey. He goes by Ty, if that makes it easier after your history with your father. I believe he's your first cousin, once removed? I figured you could use a squire, or at least someone of your own kin as a page."

"You'd allow a Lannister and Frey into your tent?" he asked her, only half-jokingly.

She shrugged and took the apple from his hands. "I have a Lannister in my bed, and that seems to be working out well enough," she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. She took a bite of his apple then. "Anyway, my uncle's reports say he's a clever lad with a tongue too sharp for his own good."

"Sounds familiar," Tyrion interjected, and Sansa quirked her eyebrows.

"It did indeed. I wasn't sure if you had a squire from Meereen, but I thought he might be good company for you in any case. You could use a few more people in this camp who don't want you dead, I reckon."

"It's always an encouraging thing. As for a squire, I did have a few young men from Meereenese families vying for Daenerys's favor who squired for me, but they never quite lived up to Podrick."

Sansa chuckled, and at that moment, the tent opened, and Jeyne had returned. Behind her were two men with the sigil of House Tully on their blue cloaks, and between them in shackles was a young man who looked to be about Sansa's age, maybe a bit younger. He had dark blonde hair and muddy green eyes, and he absolutely looked like Genna Lannister through the face.

"Tywin Frey?" Sansa greeted as she stood, and his gaze jumped from Sansa to Tyrion hesitantly before it settled on Sansa.

"Your Grace," he greeted with a bow of the head.

Sansa turned to Tyrion and said, "Well, at least he's bright enough not to insist your sister and Margaery are the only Queens in Westeros." She looked to his guards. "Remove his shackles, and then you may leave us to warm yourselves and get something to eat. You'll want to get a start back to Winterfell today with the skies as calm as they are."

"Your Grace—" one began to argue, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"I have guards outside, and I believe Ty here knows that Lord Tyrion and I mean him no harm whatsoever, do you not?" she said, addressing him.

"I do, Your Grace."

"Good. Now do as I ask, please," she ordered again to the guards, her voice more commanding this time. When they were finished, she dismissed them, and the two left. Jeyne stood quietly by the entrance to the tent.

Sansa addressed Tyrion. "I'll just have a word with Ty before we all get properly acquainted. I can call you Ty?" she asked, looking at him, and his cousin nodded. "Good. Tyrion's not overly fond of the name Tywin."

"Sansa, you're scaring him," Tyrion joked, but her only response was to give her signature smile to his cousin before moving closer to him, taking his arm, and whispering in his ear. Tyrion had to wonder what she said to him as he proceeded to nod, look curiously at her, and then turn white as a sheet.

Sansa drew back from him. "Do I need to repeat any of that?" she asked, and he shook his head quickly. "Good. I'll leave you to acquaint yourself with my husband." She turned to Tyrion. "I'd like to break fast with Jon, if you don't mind. The cook's boy will be in to serve you shortly."

"Of course," Tyrion said, a bit disappointed to see her leave after the morning they'd had, after she'd opened up to him, but he was also curious to see how like Genna his cousin was.

With a smile, she nodded to Jeyne, who helped her with her cloak, gloves, and boots, and the two ladies left them.

Tyrion searched his cousin for a moment before nodding his head. "Please, have a seat." Tyrion gestured to the chair across from him, and Ty slowly took it.

"My wife has said you're to be my squire, but I'd like to know if that suits you? I know you were a squire when I was last in Westeros, but I wasn't sure if you've been knighted since then?"

Ty shook his head again. "No, my lord. Riverrun was retaken by House Tully just three years ago when I was fourteen. As for being your squire, it's better than being in the dungeons at Riverrun, so I won't complain."

Tyrion frowned. "How is your family?"

"They're treated well. Better than we expected, to be honest. We hear quite a few jeers from the soldiers not guarding us, but Ser Brynden has kept us safe and comfortable at Queen Sansa's command. Plenty of books, good food, wood for fire, blankets. Anything we need, really."

"I like that you named books first," Tyrion commented with a kind smile as he poured two cups of wine, and Ty shrugged with a smile of his own as he accepted one from Tyrion's grasp.

"I like reading. Grandmother says I remind her of you when you were younger."

Tyrion smiled. "How is Genna?"

"She was well when I left." He paused before he continued. "She told me to tell you she hates you, but she understands why you did it. Even forgives you to a point."

Tyrion looked away. "Well, that's something."

The cook's boy came in then with a covered platter of sausage, bacon, eggs, and toast. Ty jumped right into his job and set the table with the plates and cutlery the boy had brought, and served Tyrion. As the cook's boy left, Ty looked at Tyrion. "May I?"

Tyrion realized he was asking permission to dine with him. "Of course. I'm not going to have you brought here just to send you away. No, please, go ahead."

Ty nodded. "Thank you, my lord."

After Ty had fixed his plate and retaken his seat, Tyrion leaned forward. "I know you're not used to this sort of thing, being in service, but I'm fairly certain it's only temporary. I believe my wife means for your family to have the Twins when this is all over and simply wants to be assured of your loyalty first before you're allowed back in that position."

Ty nodded as he gulped a drink of wine. "Her Grace told me as much just now."

"Good. What else did she tell you?"

Ty paled. "She just... just reminded me of the punishment, were I to step out of line."

"And are you afraid?" Tyrion asked.

He snorted. "I'm a Frey and a Lannister in a camp full of Northmen, and I've heard what she did to the last of the Boltons. I'm not an idiot, of course I'm afraid."

Tyrion tilted his head. "Wise answer." He paused, then asked, "What exactly did Sansa do to the Boltons? I know they're gone, but it's always spoken of in hushed tones since I arrived."

Ty squirmed. "Well, Ramsay Bolton was the last one left after he killed Lord and Lady Bolton and their baby son on his own—"

"He killed his own kin?" Tyrion asked.

"It's not unheard of in Westeros," he said with a sarcastic shrug before he realized what he'd said. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have joked—" he started to apologize, but Tyrion was already laughing.

"It's quite alright. I wouldn't advise you to make jokes like that in front of my wife, but feel free to make them with me."

Ty gave a weak chuckle before continuing. "Anyway, Ramsay Bolton killed his family, and he was the only one left. Then apparently, he got his hands on Lord Rickon Stark. That's when Queen Sansa, though she was still just Lady Sansa at the time, she led the Knights of the Vale to retake Winterfell, and her bastard brother Jon Snow, the Wildlings, and some of the Northmen still loyal to House Stark met her. When they retook Winterfell, and they saw what he'd done to Lord Rickon, she..." his face paled. "She flayed him."

"Sansa had him flayed?" Tyrion blanched, but Ty shook his head.

"No. She... she did it. I've heard she didn't do much, but she did enough to make him scream. Then, she sicked his own hunting hounds on him, and they tore him to pieces before she had the hounds shot."

Tyrion set down his knife and fork, suddenly not very hungry. "Sansa did that?"

"That's what I heard. I know songs aren't all that accurate, but the guards at Riverrun seemed to confirm it, and when we were at Winterfell just a while ago."

"The song?" Tyrion recalled a song he hadn't heard before that had been sung during the previous night's festivities, and every man had joined in to the point Tyrion couldn't understand the words through the tumult and echo in the hall.

" _The Winter Queen's Revenge_."

Tyrion leaned back in his chair. "My wife's got her own _Rains of Castamere_ , it seems."

Ty only nodded to that. "Before she came to the wall, she ruled at Winterfell and waited for the Northern lords who had allied with House Bolton to bend the knee to her. Those that delayed, she sent singers to them with the song. It's exactly her own _Rains of Castamere_."

Tyrion wasn't sure whether he should be impressed or terrified. Then again, this is the same Sansa who only this morning had relished in telling him of the revenge she'd gotten on Petyr Baelish for the both of them, and in the vengeance they would seek together on Olenna Tyrell. For some reason, Tyrion was leaning toward impressed, but it still left a sinking feeling in his gut.

"Ser Podrick?" Tyrion called out, hoping his former squire was outside the tent, and he wasn't disappointed.

"That does sound odd coming out of your mouth, my lord," Pod quipped as he stepped through the tent flap. "What can I do for you, Lord Tyrion?"

"Can you find accommodations for young Ty here? I'm sure he'd like a place to rest where he's not in a dungeon or in shackles."

"Lady Sansa already arranged for him to share a tent with me, if that's alright with you, my lord. She thought it safest if he wasn't sharing with a Northman, and if someone had an eye on him."

"As my lady wishes." Tyrion turned back to Ty. "Ser Podrick is of House Payne. He was also my former squire before Sansa knighted him. He'll see no harm comes to you when you're not with me."

"Thank you, my lord. Ser Podrick." Ty stood and started to leave before he turned back round. "Sorry, I'll just..." He remembered his duties and cleared the dishes clumsily before giving another bow and leaving with Pod.

Once they were gone, Tyrion drank some more wine and picked at a sweetbread. He peeled the crust off of it, imagining Sansa flaying someone. The thought made his stomach churn. She was soft and sweet with him, if fiery tempered and fierce, but he just couldn't imagine her doing that.

It was only moments later when the tent flap opened again, and Sansa returned. "How's Ty going to work out?" she asked as she took off her boots and gloves and shook out her cloak.

"Sansa," he said, and he heard the strain in his own voice, and Sansa's attention snapped to him, concern written plain on her face. "We need to talk."

* * *

 ***Slight spoiler for ep. 6x09 for those who haven't seen it, I guess* For what it's worth, I've had all this written for about two weeks. You guys have no idea how stoked I am that TV Sansa ended up giving Ramsay such a similar fate as what I called for in my fic. And Sophie's smirk at the end of 6x09 is just... yeah, that's exactly the vengeful Sansa smirk I imagined. *sigh***

 ***END SPOILER***

 **Also, I hope you guys like Ty. I was rooting around the Lannister family tree and found him. Not many off-page characters get a canon nickname, so I thought it curious that GRRM bothered to give him one and wanted to explore him and the family dynamics with Tyrion a bit. Should be interesting in future chapters, too. Hope you liked that, and hope you enjoyed the chapter. Let me know what you think!**


	7. Sansa IV: Not to Be Crossed

**I am so, so, _so_ sorry this is so late; I was writing this on my desktop computer and then it glitched due to a power surge (yay Midwest thunderstorms!). Anyway, managed to get the computer fixed and all my documents are fine. Hopefully this extra long chapter makes up for the wait.**

 **N** **ote: Friendly reminder that, despite being _way_ too handsome to portray book!Tyrion, I have an incredibly hard time consistently picturing book!Tyrion, so Peter Dinklage's show!Tyrion is my model for this fic. Still has a nose, no beard until he crosses the Narrow Sea. So on, so forth. Boring, I know, but I figured I'd put a disclaimer lest someone call me out on not being book accurate. Whatevs. Enjoy!**

* * *

 _Chapter 7_

 _Sansa IV: Not to be Crossed_

Sansa knew she'd blushed when Jon asked her what she was smiling about as they broke their fast, but the only answer she would give him was that, "Things are going well with Tyrion. Better than expected. That's all."

She knew Jon hadn't approved of her wanting to continue their marriage. He liked Tyrion, had liked him since he was the only friend he had when he first came to the Wall. But Jon thought him too old for his little sister, and, as Jon told her over and over again, she really did deserve a dashing knight like she'd always wanted.

But Sansa was grown and no longer all that concerned with dashing knights and princes. She needed only point to how well her betrothal to Joffrey had turned out to shut up her brother most of the time. And, as she pointed out, Tyrion could give her the life she wanted, if not the fairytale romance. A lady in a high household, and he'd even helped her already to attain a position on the Small Council. Feelings about gallant knights aside, he was already proving himself to be just the husband Sansa had hoped he'd be the past few months she'd been anticipating his return to Westeros.

What she didn't tell Jon as they ate, though, was how she'd felt just moments ago as she and Tyrion had talked abed, the tingle that lingered on her lips as she'd kissed his cheek, his playful banter, the warm gentleness of his hands running across her side and back, the hunger in his eyes as she'd unintentionally aroused him with a playful bump of her hips. Where that look had scared her on their wedding night, it sent a jolt through her this time, one that wasn't altogether unpleasant. These past two mornings, she'd enjoyed waking next to him, having him be the first person she saw in the morning, the first person she spoke to. She loved her brother dearly, but after months of having no one but he and soldiers talking about battle, fighting, swords, and bawdy tales about women and ale and mischief, she was truly glad of Tyrion's company. Of having someone to speak with about books, politics, logic, her past in King's Landing, their future together. It made her feel warm, after so long of thinking only of the present, of survival, to think of the future with someone.

Sansa found it hard to concentrate on conversation with Jon after that realization struck her, so she ate perhaps a bit more quickly than was proper, bid him farewell, and returned with Brienne to her tent. Jeyne was seeing to her washing as well as delivering a few missives to Castle Black and her bannermen. As they approached the tent, she saw Pod was gone, and she presumed he'd already taken Ty to settle in.

Tyrion was sitting back at the table, alone, breakfast gone. She smiled at him, his morning's touches still lingering on her. "How's Ty going to work out?" she asked as she shed her outer garments.

"Sansa," he said, his voice troubled, and she looked at him, and that's when she noticed the clouded look on his face, so different from the contented smile she'd left him with. "We need to talk."

Sansa fixed a smile on her face. "About what?" She walked to him and put her hand over his on the table, but he pulled away from her touch. She searched his face, but all she saw were tired eyes and a contemplative frown. Worried, she knelt by the arm of his chair so their faces were of a height. Everything had been so... so wonderful this morning. What the hell could Ty have said that would bring about this change. "What did Ty say? What did I do?"

Tyrion looked away from her before he said, "You flayed Ramsay Bolton."

Sansa's jaw set, the name alone enough to raise her ire. "I did."

"You did it. Having it done by someone else would be one thing, but gods Sansa, you're not the woman I knew if you did it yourself." The look on his face now was akin to disgust, disgust aimed at her.

The corner of Sansa's mouth twitched. "We both know perfectly well I'm not the little girl you knew. Not anymore."

"Sansa, I know he mistreated Rickon—"

"Mistreated?!" Sansa exclaimed. "That's a very, _very_ kind word for what my brother went through at that monster's hands." Sansa felt her eyes start to water, and she stood and turned away so she could brush away the forming tears. Whether they came from sadness at Tyrion's doubt or anger yet again at what had been done to her brother, she couldn't say.

"You love Jaime." Tyrion took a while to answer, and Sansa turned back to see him seemingly deliberate his answer before giving a grudging nod. Sansa's brow furrowed. "You used to love him, anyway." At that, Tyrion nodded more confidently. Pragmatically, she made a note to ask him about that later. "Imagine retaking Casterly Rock from a man of the family that violently murdered yours. Imagine going to the dungeons, and finding Jaime there. Chained to the walls, starved, beaten, missing fingers, missing _flesh_ , one eye blind and whitened—"

Sansa's voice broke at the memory of it all. Her men had surrounded Ramsay Bolton and bound him in the courtyard. She picked up a crossbow and aimed it at him, feeling merciless toward the bastard son of the man who gave the final blow to her eldest brother at the Red Wedding. "Where is Rickon?" she asked, her voice as level as she could make it.

"He's in the dungeons," he said smugly, and Sansa lowered the weapon. "What's left of him anyway," he added with an antagonistic drawl. Theon had escaped Ramsay's grasp, but when Sansa reunited with her brother and his men before they'd marched on Winterfell, she'd found Jeyne with Jon's camp. She was quiet, the girl who had once been her best friend. Her face was drawn, her hair like straw. She had bruises that just wouldn't heal, scars everywhere that she'd shown Sansa. And she'd told Sansa what Ramsay had done to Theon. What kind of monster he was. "If he gets you, just kill yourself. It'd be easier," she warned Sansa.

As Ramsay spat at the ground at Sansa's feet, anger rose at his words, at her horror that what Jeyne had told her he'd done to Theon, he'd done to Rickon, too. In rage, she pulled the trigger on the crossbow, and the bolt hit him in the shoulder. She'd been aiming for his heart, but she'd never fired a crossbow before, even if it was at close range. But she didn't take aim again. She handed the crossbow to Jon, who was standing at her side, and she gave the order. "Chain him, gag him. Put him somewhere cold where he won't know day from night."

She'd carried a torch into the dungeons herself to find Rickon, passing through the courtyard, the hallways, past the great hall, the greenhouse, the kitchens, and finally coming to the spiraling stair that led down. It was a layer above the crypts, and there was still some daylight that came in from barred openings in the walls right against the low ceilings, but Sansa had to let her eyes adjust before she proceeded. There were dead Bolton men strewn everywhere. Clearly her soldiers had cleared the dungeons, but they hadn't known Rickon was here. Sansa used logic and went first to the chamber at the end of the hall, where three men were piled close. Guards. Guarding something, or someone.

She reached down to the belt of one of them and pulled the keys from his corpse. "Sansa," Jon whispered to her, but Sansa shook her head. He was her little brother, in blood and name. Hers to protect. Her failure. Her guilt.

The lock turned over as she tried the fourth key on the ring, and the door whined open with a high-pitched creak. She could still hear the rats chittering, the frost of her breath in the air as only a few torches warmed and lit the room. The jangling of the chains as Rickon stirred, his begging pleas for mercy as she entered and he didn't recognize her, his own big sister. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw him shivering in nothing but bloodied rags of smallclothes. Patches of red blotted his skin, and she thought them welts, but then, as she moved closer, she realized it wasn't enflamed skin, but a lack of skin. The bastard had flayed her baby brother.

"Gods," she whimpered as tears came to her eyes. His left eye was white, with a scar protruding pink up and down his eyelids. Rickon squinted at her voice.

"Sansa?" he said weakly.

Sansa nodded as she took in the missing fingers from his hands that dangled limply from the shackles above his head.

"Jon, help me." Sansa's hands shook as she tried to find the right key to his chains. Finally, she found the one that fit the lock. Rickon cried out as Jon took him in his arms, catching him from collapsing to the floor in his weak state. Sansa unlocked his feet as well, and Jon swooped up their baby brother in his arms, and the siblings made their way upstairs to get him warm, to get him dressed. They'd laid him in a bed next to a roaring fire and covered him with blankets and furs. Lady Melisandre had given him a sleeping draught. She didn't trust the red woman, having only just met her, but Jon did, so she let her do her work.

Sansa could do nothing but sit in a chair at Rickon's bedside and stroke his hair as he slept. She'd hummed some of Rickon's favorite songs like mother used to do. Every now and then, one of her bannermen would come in, asking how to handle some matter, and she would gather her thoughts long enough to give a decent answer, but then as they left, she would weep again, weep for the little brother she'd failed. Weep for the little boy he never would be again.

"Sansa?" Tyrion's voice called back to her, and she dragged herself out of memory. He was no longer sitting, but standing in front of her. After a moment, she realized tears streamed down her face, and she was shaking. Tyrion took her hand and led her to sit on the chaise, and he sat beside her.

"I flayed him. I did it myself. And if I'd had the stomach for it, I would have flayed him from feet to neck for what he did to my baby brother, my baby brother who was only eight years old—" Sansa's voice failed her and she sobbed. She clapped a hand to her mouth, but Tyrion put an arm around her back, another on the hand still in her lap, and let her have a moment.

When Sansa regained control of herself, Tyrion drew out a handkerchief, and Sansa dried her eyes, dabbed at her nose. She looked back down at her lap before she continued. "I know I should feel like a monster for what I did. Maybe I am one. But I don't feel like one. When I had Ramsay dragged out to the courtyard in naught but his smallclothes, and I started to return the hurt he'd done to Rickon, and he started screaming so loudly it hurt my ears as I stood in front of him, felt his spit hit my face as he cried out, felt his blood on my hands as my knife carved into him, felt his flesh pull away in my grasp, I didn't feel like a monster. I just felt like I was giving him exactly what he deserved." She shook her head. "I couldn't imagine doing it again. Not to someone who didn't deserve it."

"But you know me," she said. "You know the horrors I've seen, the nightmares it's given me." She looked Tyrion in the eyes then. "I haven't lost a single second of sleep over how I killed that monstrous bastard. And if given the choice again, I would do it all just the same." She gave a sarcastic smile. "Still disgusted with me? With _The Winter Queen's Revenge_?"

Tyrion shook his head, failing to meet her gaze. "How is he?"

Sansa shrugged. "I nursed him back to health for almost six months before Edd begged us to come to the Wall. He still has days where he can't bring himself to get out of bed. Ramsay cut into the muscles of his legs when he flayed him there, and he has a hard time walking. He'll never run and play again as he should for a ten-year old boy, that much is certain. And Lyanna's letters to me have reported much the same. He reads, and he plays with a puppy Jon gave him after we found out his direwolf Shaggydog was slaughtered, but he's just quiet." _He'll never have heirs_ , Sansa wanted to add, but she didn't. She loved her little brother, and castrated or not, he was still the next in line to have Winterfell. Either Jon's or her second son by Tyrion would be heir to Winterfell after Rickon. It didn't matter now, not yet.

Sansa rubbed at her eyes, wishing she could scrub away the memories, but she knew well enough she'd never be able to do that.

Tyrion shook his head. "I can't say I would have done the same, but I understand it," he said quietly. He gave her a hard smile. "You Northerners are more wild than we Southrons could ever be."

"Just as a Lannister always pays his debts, the North Remembers," Sansa said with a cynical smile, remembering their oaths made only this morning. "I made sure no one would forget what happens to those who cross my family."

"That you did. With a song, even."

Sansa shook her head. "Lord Wyman Manderly had a singer in his court who came along to Winterfell. He's the one who wrote the damn thing. Can't say I mind, though. It's certainly given me a reputation not to be crossed, even if it doesn't mention my crying and weeping at Rickon's bedside."

Tyrion lightly palmed a circle at the small of her back, and Sansa found herself closing her eyes at his touch, recalling the calm and content of the morning. The knot that had worked its way through her chest loosened, little by little. Without thinking, Sansa leaned her head toward Tyrion until their foreheads touched, and she found comfort in his closeness. When she'd finally calmed, she took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Tyrion watched her with a softened look, and she drew back. She opened her mouth to apologize for leaning into him like that, but then she closed her mouth. Why should she? He was her husband. She'd seen her mother and father comfort themselves like that a thousand times over. And a marriage like theirs, one borne of duty but resulting in friendship and even love, well, that's what she hoped might, one day, happen for Tyrion and herself, wasn't it?

"Was there anything else you wanted to talk about?" she asked him, once she had regained her posture.

He took a moment to look at her before shaking his head. He rose from the chaise and stood in front of her. Sansa immediately missed the warmth of his hand on her back. "Right now, I think it's time for a shave." He winked at her and she laughed.

"You don't have to if you really don't want to," Sansa told him.

He looked at her curiously. "You hate it."

Sansa sighed and rolled her eyes at herself. "I'm being silly about the whole thing." She waited for him to say something, but he just stared at her, waiting for her to elaborate. "It's... it's like our wedding," Sansa said slowly, considering her words. "I was upset at our wedding—well, for quite a few reasons—but quite a lot because it wasn't how I pictured it. My family wasn't there, you weren't exactly the husband I'd pictured in my girlhood, Joffrey took my father's place in removing my maiden's cloak. It was nothing like I'd ever imagined and it upset me.

"The beard, it's the same feeling for me. The last six months since I've known you were alive, since I'd learned you were actually coming back to me, I pictured you as my husband, what our future might look like—"

"But you pictured me as I was. Without a beard," Tyrion finished for her.

"Exactly," Sansa said, and she sighed. "Honestly, I don't even mind it all that much. It's a bit scratchy to lean against, but it's not terrible. It's just not what I imagined. But like I said, I'm being silly, so don't feel you have to," she finished, looking down, feeling childish and embarrassed.

Tyrion's fingers gently took her chin and lifted her face to look at him, and he moved closer to her. "Consider it gone," he said with a smile on his lips, and Sansa gave a smile of her own. Tenderly, he brought her chin forward and he lowered his head, gently kissing her cheek, his lips lingering, and she could feel the warm of his breath. Sansa closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling, but then he pulled away, gently rubbing his thumb over her cheekbone with a longing look in his eyes. He kissed her quickly on the forehead then before walking away to his trunks.

"Should I summon Ty?" she asked.

"Let the poor lad sleep," Tyrion told her. "Doubt he's slept on anything even so good as a camp bed since he left Winterfell." As he rummaged, he pulled out a toiletry kit.

"You really should unpack, you know," she said.

He turned to look at her. "I honestly didn't know how sharing a tent with you would turn out. When Pod first led me here, I thought it was just a matter of time before you'd kick me out, so why bother?"

"And now?"

He shrugged. "I'll have Ty do it tomorrow," he said with a smile, and she rolled her eyes at him.

Sansa moved some of her things out of the way on the vanity as he took a seat at the bench. "I'll have a larger vanity table brought in," she told him. "This suited me alone, but it's not big enough for both of us."

"Just how vain do you think I am?" he asked as he found a razor in his kit and laid it down next to a bottle of witch hazel and a leather strop he'd already procured.

"You Lannisters are always dripping in gold and rubies. You're all terribly vain."

He took her left hand and kissed her wedding ring. "Are we now?" he said with a smirk, and she took her hand back and gave him a playful smack on the cheek, dampened entirely by his beard, earning a chuckle from him. "Hmm."

"What?"

"I can't seem to find my shears. Last time I used them I think was on the ship. I might have misplaced them..." he drifted off, still looking through the kit.

Sansa grabbed her own, hidden out of sight behind where the mirror was propped up on the table. "Use mine," she said, offering the handle to him. She paused, then asked, "Would you like help?"

He narrowed his eyes curiously at her. "Have you ever even shaven a man?"

She gave him a dirty look as she shook out a towel to drape over his front. "Yes. Jon hurt his hand about a year ago training some over-eager boy soldiers. He didn't want to ask anyone else for help, so I did it for him for a few weeks until his hand healed." She tucked the towel into Tyrion's collar as she sat beside him on the bench, one leg curled under her so she could face him properly.

With a bit of awkwardness, he swung a leg over the bench to straddle it so he could face her. As he adjusted the towel, he said, "Ah, so that's where he got all those scars from."

Sansa, who'd already run her fingers through one side of his beard to hold the hair away from his face to make the first cut, narrowed her eyes at him. "There's still time for me to decide I like being a widow, _Lannister_ ," she warned him, but there was a smile on her lips all the same.

"Do you now?" he murmured as she trimmed his beard, the hairs falling onto the towel. His hand, meanwhile, had found her ankle where it rested on the bench under her skirts, and was rubbing circles into her stockings with his thumb.

"You saw Jon's scars, and that was without distractions," Sansa joked, but she could feel a blush rising on her cheeks, and Tyrion pulled his hand back with a chuckle.

It took a few minutes, but finally, Tyrion's barely kempt beard of five years was sheared down to little more than stubble. Finally, she could see the shape of her husband's face again, the faint outline where his scar had been hiding on his cheek. As Sansa frothed up some soap into a foam for shaving, Tyrion put his hand to his cheeks. "No blood yet," he quipped.

Sansa narrowed her eyes as she started to lather his cheeks. "There's still time," she said with a smirk, and he laughed in his throat as he pressed his lips together for her to lather everything below the nose.

He eyed her as she opened his razor and ran it across a leather strop a few times. She rolled her eyes as she retook her seat in front of him and tilted his head to get at his unscarred cheek first. "If your last name's not Bolton, you've nothing to fear."

"Lannister seems to be close enough for most of you Northerners," he said.

"If you keep talking, I'll end up taking off your nose," she told him as she took the first shave, and he pressed his lips together again. Sansa gasped as she wiped the blade. "Seven Hells, there actually is a way to silence you!" He didn't have a comeback, but a smile played about his cheeks as she continued to shave him.

She took quite a bit of time as she moved to the other cheek, careful not to knick at the puckered scar tissue that ran from the bridge of his nose diagonally to his jaw. After quite a few passes and leaning in quite closely, she deemed the area finished. When she sat back to refocus her eyes, she noticed Tyrion looking at her with almost misty eyes. She smiled, kissed him on the cheek, her lips pressing against the scar, then drew back, cleaned off the razor, and continued about his chin and lip.

Last came his neck, and Tyrion closed his eyes and tilted his head back to expose it to her. "You trust me not to slit your throat?" she joked as she took the first swipe up the side of his neck.

"If you wanted me dead, you could've killed me anytime in our bed the past two nights. Or had any of your men do it. Or simply invited me to revisit the top of the Wall and pushed me over the edge to make it look like an accident, even."

She shaved over his Adam's Apple to the tip of the chin before she responded. "You've given that a bit of thought?"

Tyrion shrugged as response until she'd finished her next pass. "If I were you and I'd been married off to a dwarf in a family I despised, I'd want to be a widow. But I'm also much more a bitter person than you, so perhaps that's just me."

Sansa considered a response as she continued to shave his neck. "I thought myself a widow for five years, Tyrion," she finally answered. "But never once was I glad in thinking that." She rinsed off the blade before continuing. "You were the only person in King's Landing who let me make my own choices again. I didn't, couldn't, care for you then, but I've appreciated that fact ever since we were separated, and I appreciate it now. No one else in King's Landing would have wed me as a child and shown the restraint and kindness that you did. Not a single person. I would never, and could never wish you dead, Tyrion." With that, she took the last swipe from his neck, and she put the razor down.

She took his chin gently between her thumb and forefinger to turn his head to both sides, checking that she'd got everything before she cleaned off the razor one last time and taking up a hand towel to wipe the dregs of foam off his face. She then dabbed a cloth with witch hazel extract and gently patted his face with it. Tyrion sat there in silence for a while, staring at Sansa with something akin to awe. "I'd forgotten how that tingles," he whispered.

She put down the cloth and looked at him. "There you are," she said with a smile, finally seeing the husband she remembered, and she put her hand on his cheek briefly. She reached over for a small hand mirror and gave it to him.

"Haven't had a shave like this since the morning of Joffrey's wedding." He looked at Sansa then. "Thank you."

With a smile, she leaned forward and placed a quick kiss on his cleanly shaven cheek before she stood and carefully folded up the towel from Tyrion's chest so as to not get hairs on everything. She took that towel and the others and dropped them in the linens basket she knew Jeyne would fetch later on.

She set the rinse and lather bowls on a table by the tent's entrance to be taken out later and then returned to sit beside Tyrion, who was still looking at himself in the mirror. "And you argued that you Lannisters aren't all terribly vain," she joked, taking the mirror from him and setting it aside.

"I'm not the same man I was when I last looked like this," he murmured, his gaze not quite meeting hers.

She put her hand on his cheek, and he looked at her properly. "Are you okay?" she asked quietly.

He nodded, and he leaned into her hand. Without the towel and razor between them, Sansa realized how close they were, facing each other on the bench. She rubbed circles on his cheek with her thumb, and he closed his eyes at her comfort. Seated at the same height, he was barely shorter than she was. She only just had to look down at him from this position, unlike the difference of over a foot when they stood side by side. She didn't like looking down on him. It wasn't that it reminded her that he was a dwarf, she knew that very well. More, it was that she remembered her stubbornness at their wedding, when she had refused to kneel for him to cloak her. The hurt and embarrassment on his face that she was the sole cause of when she had turned round. After their wedding, she'd made every effort to sit for them to talk, however rare an occasion that was. She always wanted to look at him face to face, then and now.

Sansa looked at him then, her husband. The man who had near dominated her thoughts for the past six months. The man she'd pictured at her side as they campaigned South, at her side as they took back Casterly Rock, as they exacted revenge against Olenna Tyrell, as they took King's Landing, as they ruled together, walked through the gardens together, raised golden- and auburn-haired children in a castle by the sea together...

She'd kissed Joffrey when she'd been his betrothed, and Petyr when he'd taken kisses from her, and Harry Hardyng, when he'd presumed to kiss Alayne the bastard girl, but the thought of kissing her husband, not out of duty as she had at the altar when they'd wed, but kissing him out of affection, out of feeling, it set loose butterflies in her belly. Tentatively, she ran her thumb down from his cheek across his shaven face to his lips. She felt his breath hitch, but before he could open his eyes to look at her, Sansa leaned in and pressed her lips to his, and kissed her husband for true.

She closed her eyes, wanting to feel this moment. His lips were softer than she thought they'd be, but then she realized he hadn't moved. His lips hadn't met hers, hadn't responded. He was tense, frozen. She drew back, looking at him, and he looked confused and taken aback. Shame and confusion washed through her; she was a lady, she shouldn't have been so forward, but she thought he'd wanted her? Only this morning she thought she'd felt his arousal against her, been flustered by it, but maybe she was mistaken—maybe he didn't really want her?

"I'm sorry," she muttered, pulling her hands away, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. "I shouldn't have—"

"Sansa," he said, taking her wrist gently as she pulled it away, and she looked into his eyes. The same confusion was still there, but the lust and want she'd seen was there, too.

"I—I didn't mean to be so forward," she said, but he brought a hand to her cheek.

"I wasn't expecting you to kiss me, Sansa," he breathed. His fingers brushed over her cheek, and her breath hitched. He frowned before continuing, "I want you, Sansa, but you don't have to do this if you don't want to. You don't have to pretend you want me."

Sansa opened her mouth to deny his assertion, but how could she? What could she possibly say to negate the way she'd disdained him in King's Landing, they way he'd thought of her for the past five years of their separation? And he wasn't entirely wrong. Sansa wasn't truly attracted to him, not like she had been to Ser Loras when she was younger, or even Joffrey, she thought with a mental retch. But there were traits of him she found endearing, comforting. His mismatched eyes drew her in; she'd never seen anyone else with that feature, and she did find it curious. And his hair was darker than his family's, so much so she could pretend he wasn't a Lannister at times. It was even darker than she'd remembered it (she'd wondered briefly upon seeing him again if he'd dyed his hair as she had hers when she'd been in hiding as Alayne). And his smile... his smile was always warm, always caring, always wonderful. And the way he made her feel—safe, warm, free—that was exactly what she wanted. No, maybe she didn't desire him bodily in the way she'd always assumed she should want her husband, but she desired the way he made her feel with her whole heart. He was what she wanted now, as a grown woman. What she needed.

And she had no clue how to tell him that properly, in a way he would believe, cynic that he was. He still looked at her sadly, but all she could do was shake her head to deny his accusations. "I want this," she told him, and she leaned in to kiss him again. She couldn't explain herself, but maybe she could show him how she felt.

Her lips met his, and he froze yet again, though only for a moment. Her lips were inexperienced as they danced awkwardly with his, and the hand that had been on her cheek moved to cup the back of her head, pulling her in closer to him. Sansa's hands fluttered between her lap and his chest, not certain of what she should do with them. His other hand, in the meantime, had gripped round her waist. With more physical strength than she thought him capable of, he pulled her closer to him on the bench, and her breasts brushed against his chest.

She gasped into their kiss at the contact, and Sansa felt his tongue dance over her bottom lip and into her mouth, probing gently at her own tongue. She didn't know what to do; whenever Joffrey, Petyr, or Harry had forced their tongues into her mouth this way, she always just screwed her eyes shut and waited for them to pull away. But the delicate way Tyrion's tongue gently tickled at hers, she knew he wanted something of her, but she didn't know what.

He drew back, his hands still on her, holding her, and he looked at her questioningly. Sansa took a breath before speaking. "I don't know how to kiss like that," she admitted, and she felt a blush rise to her cheeks for what seemed the thousandth time that morning.

Tyrion drew back even more and looked at her curiously. "It's been five years, Sansa."

She shook her head. "I mean, Petyr and Harry, they stole kisses like that from me," she mumbled, "but I didn't want to kiss them, so I just held still and waited until they were finished. I don't really know what to do. I'm sorry," she finished, looking away from him. She didn't know which was worse, feeling too wanton, or feeling like she didn't know how to do the simplest of affections properly: kissing her husband.

"Sansa, you... you're still a maiden?" he asked, and Sansa looked at him indignantly.

"Of course I'm still a maiden." She bristled at the insinuation. She wanted to be mad at him for questioning her honor, her virtue, but he didn't look at her with judgment, just with that look of confusion that was so rare on her husband's face.

He shook his head. "I just thought... I've been gone, I'd have thought you'd be lonely, you would have found someone to comfort you, to hold you."

Sansa looked to the side for a moment, her lip quivering. She couldn't deny she'd thought about it, but every time she had, she'd refused to hurt Tyrion. She'd made vows to him, willingly or unwillingly, and so long as he was her husband, she'd keep them. He may not hold much stock in the gods, but she did. "I wouldn't make a cuckold of you, Tyrion. You're my husband. We may never have been intimate," she said with a blush, "but it hurt when I heard about Shae, from the trial." She looked at him, and he looked away in shame. She put her hand on his cheek. "I don't blame you," she told him as he looked back to her eyes. "You were married to a little girl who didn't want you, and you didn't force me to lay with you. I don't blame you for finding comfort elsewhere, Tyrion. I suspected you were when we were in King's Landing, anyway. I didn't know it was Shae, but I knew there was someone." She frowned for a moment. "I forgave you almost as soon as I knew of it, but it still hurt to know you were unfaithful, and I wouldn't have done the same to you. I haven't. I... I'm still as much a maiden today as the day you wed me."

At that admission, she felt the heat rising in her cheeks even more, and she looked at his chest rather than his face. She felt his hand move from her neck back to her cheek, and she looked at him. He wore an almost pained expression as he mulled over his words, his lips just barely parted. "You've always been more than I deserve, Sansa, but this..." He gave a pained smile. "I thought for five years you hated me... only to now find you've been more loyal to me than anyone else ever has."

She looked away then, a pang of guilt shooting through her as she thought of how she'd run away from him, from King's Landing, during the confusion of Joffrey's wedding. But he hadn't asked about that, and she didn't want to tell him. She wouldn't lie to him if he asked, but she was too ashamed to be the one to bring it up first.

He leaned toward her, still smiling over the immovable loyalty he thought she possessed, and he brought his lips to meet hers. She shoved her guilt aside and tried to enjoy the feeling again. They had a whole lifetime together to worry through past pains and slights. This... this was the affection she wanted to build their future on.

"Don't be nervous, Sansa," he whispered softly against her lips. "I promise you, you can do no wrong in this. Just do what feels right." His lips met hers again, and his hand returned to cradle the back of her head, pulling her in closely. She opened her mouth for him again, and his tongue entered, gently prompting hers. Bravely, at his encouragements, she moved her tongue to meet his, to tentatively flit across his lip. She felt him smile against her lips, and she gained confidence, allowing her tongue to dance more willfully with his own. Carefully, she wrapped her hands around him, to hold him, and he pulled her closer still, her breasts now fully pressed against his chest.

His hands wandered at her sides, wandering from her bust to her hips, his movements becoming more erratic and urgent. Sansa clung to his shoulders as his lips crashed urgently into hers. Suddenly, she became aware of his growing erection against her leg that was curled on the bench, pressed between them. He was so firm against her, surely as firm as he had been on their wedding night. The thought made her gasp, and she pulled away.

"Sansa," he breathed, his hands desperately grabbing at her, his breath still hot on her face. She pulled her arms away and gently took his wrists in her hands, pulling herself from his grasp.

"I... I have things I need to do today. I have to go to Castle Black, to speak to the Lord Commander. And go up the Wall," she stumbled, listing off things she meant to do later in the week as excuse to rise from the bench and extricate herself from her husband.

The look of want, of need, that he gave her made her feel excruciatingly guilty for leaving him, but she wasn't ready for this. Not midday, not all of a sudden. They'd only just shared their first real kiss, she wasn't ready so soon to be bedded. No, she had to leave, to collect her thoughts, to make sure, yet again, one last time, that this _was_ what she wanted. After they'd consummated, there'd be no turning back.

"I'm so sorry to leave you," she apologized, and she hoped beyond all else that he believed her, because it was the absolute truth. Part of her wanted to stay, to continue enjoying his touch, his need, but another part was terrified to, terrified that she was making a mistake, terrified of doing what she'd put off for five years, and caution urged her to heed that part as she did now.

"Sansa," he said again, his voice more in control this time, and he swung one of his legs over the bench and slowly stood, but she already had her boots on.

Quickly, she grabbed her cloak and gloves. "I'll be back in time for supper, my lord. Have a good day," she told him, walking out of the tent and into the bitter cold. Only as she was outside standing by the Knights of the Vale there to protect Tyrion, and by Brienne, who was seated by the brazier just outside for them all to keep warm, did she put on her cloak and gloves. "I need to go to the Wall," Sansa said, and Brienne rose to escort her. If ever she needed to go to the top of that icy monument to her ancestors' achievement to get perspective on the world and on her life, it was certainly this moment.


	8. Tyrion IV: A Small Concession

**Hello all! I'm loving the reviews; I truly can't believe how much love I'm getting on my first fic, so I'm really, really thankful for it. Here's chapter eight, and I had quite a bit of fun finally diving into the other side of camp in this chapter. Enjoy!**

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 _Chapter 8_

 _Tyrion IV: A Small Concession_

 _Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot!_ Tyrion berated himself mentally as he poured a glass of Arbor Gold. In another part of his mind, he was reciting dragon's names to calm his erection, but he was more furious with himself for scaring off Sansa than he was concerned about his strained breeches at the moment. _She's literally just finished telling you she's still a maiden, still shy, still doesn't even know how to kiss properly, and you attack and grope at her like an animal. Idiot!_

A part of him wanted to wallow for the way she'd spurned him, but he cursed himself for it; that was the same thinking that sent him reeling after Shae's betrayal. _Women will never want you. And yet..._ Sansa had kissed _him_. Not the other way around. No, he wouldn't ascribe her running away to rejection, not just yet. The way she'd responded to him—that wasn't the way of rejection, he was all too familiar with that.

He put his cup of wine on the table and took a seat, proceeding to beat his head back against the headrest in his frustration. After a few minutes of self-abuse, he realized his recitation of the dragons' names wasn't working in the slightest. With a frown, he looked at the tent flap. It would only be his luck that Jeyne would walk in on him, but he muttered, "Fuck it," unlaced his breeches to free his cock, and jerked himself off under the table.

As he pulled on his manhood, he thought of Sansa's lips, of her sweet breath, her tongue mingling with his, shy and uncertain; of her arms gripped so tightly around him, clinging to him as he'd never thought she would; of her generous breasts pushed up against his chest, molding to his shape. He thought of burying his face in her tits, of untying her gown and undressing her to her bare flesh, of seeing the woman's body she'd grown into so properly, the woman's body he'd only guessed at from glimpses from behind her dressing screen and under her flimsy night shifts. At the thought of taking her rosy, hardened nipples into his mouth, of teasing them with his tongue, he gave a groan and shuddered as he finished into his hand. He gave a few more tugs as he milked himself of his lust before he stilled. The sweat on his brow quickly turned cool, and he chilled at the feeling. Rousing himself, he used his unsullied hand to reach for a lacy white handkerchief on Sansa's vanity, as he'd given her his own as she'd cried earlier. He'd put it in the laundry and hope she didn't know what he'd used it for. He wiped his hand clean, dabbed up a few spots of his seed that had passed his hand to land on his breeches, leaving wet marks. After a quick inspection, he tucked his cock back in and laced his breeches. He walked to the basket Sansa had discarded the shaving towels into and hid the handkerchief under them, hoping it would go unnoticed.

As the euphoria of his climax dissipated, his frustration with himself and how he'd treated Sansa came roaring back. Why, why had he lost control like that? Why had he treated his maiden wife like a common whore in a brothel? He sat back down to his wine, propped his elbows on the table, and buried his face in his hands.

After a moment of wallowing in something he couldn't change by doing nothing, he slammed his fist on the table in anger and rose to go to the tent's entrance. "Guard?" he asked as he pulled open the tent flap. The bitter cold hit him like knives. Remembering Sansa had left in such a hurry without her cloak and gloves yet on, he thought of how much she must have wanted to get away from him that she would quite literally run out into this.

"Lord Tyrion," answered a knight, stern-looking and about the same age as Tyrion, with what Tyrion recognized as the sigil of House Corbray on the breast of his black cloak. "Ser Lucas Corbray. I serve at the Queen's Command and for your protection."

Tyrion didn't fail to notice the slight at his turn of phrase, but he didn't care. He was Robert Arryn's man. He was just glad the little lordling seemed over his bout of eagerness to "make the little man fly," no doubt at Sansa's request. "If you'd be so kind as to have a squire summon Ser Podrick Payne, I require his assistance for today."

"As you wish, my lord," he said with a curt nod of the head. Tyrion closed the tent flap as he heard Ser Lucas bark an order to his squire to fetch Pod. Fleetingly, he thought of Ty and hoped he'd be alright on his own, but he waved the concern aside. Tyrion was under the impression few knew Ty was even there, let alone who he was. Just some squire boy from a house no one was quite certain of. He should be fine without Pod there for one day while the lad rested in the tent after his travels. Tyrion picked up his boots, warm from sitting under the brazier, and went to the chaise to put them on.

He sat with his head in his hands until he heard the rustle of the tent flap and Podrick's entrance.

"My lord?"

"I hope I didn't interrupt you in anything?" Tyrion asked, more out of courtesy than actual care. He needed a friend right now, even if he and Podrick hadn't properly talked and drank and laughed as they used to in years.

"No. Just tending to my armor and chain mail. Have to keep it well oiled in this snow and cold."

"Good. I need to take a walk around Daenerys's camp and talk to a few people today, and I could use better company than Ser Lucas Corbray out there."

"Very good, my lord," Pod said with a smile. Tyrion returned it, if only half-heartedly, donned his cloak and gloves, and the two made their way outside and toward Daenerys's armies.

He gave the Dothraki a wide berth. He tread carefully around Daenerys's affinity for the horse lords, but he had agreed more with Sansa's sentiments toward them than he had Daenerys's. They gave her great numbers, yes, but unreliable numbers. Tyrion remembered how his own father's gold had paid for the band of sellswords that Vargo Hoat had at his back, and that unreliability ended up costing Jaime his sword hand. He only hoped the Dothraki presence wouldn't end up costing Daenerys something equally as valuable.

Aside from his uncertainties regarding their worth to Daenerys taking the Iron Throne, their disdain for him was more than obvious. Theirs was a culture where any dwarf born would be left in the Great Grass Sea to die. And possibly the mother, too, for bringing such a monstrosity into the world. A man who could barely ride a horse, let alone fight on one, was no fit man in their eyes. Bitterly, he once again thanked the gods he had been born a Lannister, despite all the trouble it had got him into. Then again, he thought of Penny, and Groat, lowborn, and ending up more miserable than he had been, and in the end both died, because of him.

Tyrion stopped at a brazier outside a Second Sons tent, feigning to warm his hands but truly just wanting to hide his face from the world for a moment, and Pod paused with him.

During the second siege of Meereen, Tyrion had begged her to stay back, stay away from the fighting, stay away from something she had no business in, despite his lessons to teach her how to fight, but she wouldn't listen. She stayed right there at his side as he had used his height to his advantage to cut down grown men by the legs. In the melee of battle, they'd never seen him coming. Until there was a clearing, and a man charged at Tyrion. With more agility than he'd thought he possessed, Tyrion spun out of the way of the man's spear, but Penny hadn't expected that. She dove right into the man's path, trying to save him.

Tyrion cut the man down before kneeling to Penny's side. The battle raged on, but the two dwarves huddled down in the middle of the battlefield, covered in blood and dust, drew no attention.

"Penny," he whispered, and he felt tears working their way up, something he hadn't thought possible anymore, not after all the pain and betrayal his family, Shae, Sansa had put him through. "Why in Seven Hells would you do that?" he asked as she shuddered. The spear had broken, and Tyrion grabbed what little of the shaft and head remained and pulled it from where it had pierced through the belly of her ill-fitting armor.

"I'm dead without you, anyway," she muttered, her hand meeting his over her wound. Their fingers had interlocked.

 _She finally learned the truth, then. That the world is cruel,_ he thought. And she was right. This girl, barely more than a child, never trained in logic or strategy, knew that without him, without his promises of gold from Casterly Rock to the Second Sons, she was doomed anyway.

"You're not dead," Tyrion lied as her blood gushed through their entwined fingers. He took off her helm. It wouldn't do her any good anymore.

"Go home, Tyrion," she told him, and her breaths became labored. Tyrion noticed the blood becoming darker, thicker, and a stench reached him as he realized her bowels had ruptured from the blow.

"Penny," he breathed, tears flowing down his cheeks freely now. "You were kind to me." The words sounded stupid even to him, but he'd had to tell her, tell her how unexpected it was. He kissed her then, kissed her as she'd always wanted him to, but her lips only feebly responded to his.

It was just as well; he didn't mean the kiss anyway. It was just another lie to comfort her, like the ones he'd cursed that she'd told herself so many times before. Her brown eyes looked up at him, watery and afraid, and he held her gaze, refusing to look away. If he was the last thing she wanted to see before she died, he wouldn't deny her that. Slowly, in painful rasps, her breaths grew shallower and shallower, and then they stopped. Tyrion felt his own breath stop as he watched her brown eyes widen, as her face contorted in pain relaxed, as her fingers against his own lost their strength. She was gone.

He gave a sob then and brought her to his chest. He took deep breaths as his face tucked into her shoulder, into her hair, her head lolling limp over his arm.

 _Is that what I would do to Sansa now?_ he wondered as the heat of the flames tickled at his palms. She was no longer an innocent, naive thing like she had been when he'd left her, like Penny still had been before she died. But Tysha, Shae, Sansa, Penny... Tysha might still be alive, but Sansa had been the only one to escape his clutches unscathed. Did he really want to curse her with himself a second time?

"Pod," Tyrion asked, and he could hear the strain in his voice. He worked to level it out before continuing. "Did Sansa ever talk with you about me?"

Podrick hesitated before nodding his head. "She did, yes. But, I don't know how much I should say, my lord." He frowned.

"You're in her service now," Tyrion said, remembering himself. "Forgive me, Pod, I didn't mean to ask anything ungallant of you. I just... I've just been wondering what Sansa's thought of me while I was gone."

He turned away from the fire and the wind wasted no time in biting at him once more. He walked slowly through the camp of the Second Sons, of which he was still technically one, if only in name.

"She asked me about you, my lord," Pod finally spoke. Tyrion didn't look at him, just let the lad speak what he would. "Ever since she learned you were still alive, since she started deliberating over whether she wanted to annul your marriage at last or keep it, she asked me about you. About what you were like before you and she were wed, what you spoke to me about her, what you were like with Tommen and Myrcella, how you played with them, what you were like with Shae," he said, apologetically. "Mostly, she just wanted to know if you'd be a good husband. If you'd be as good a proper husband and lover to her as you were a friend." Though more sure of himself now than he had been in King's Landing, Pod blushed his signature shade of red at that comment.

"And what did she say to you?"

Pod shook his head. "Not much. She just listened. Just asked questions about you and listened to my answers."

Tyrion sighed, wishing his wife had given just a bit more away, just a bit more of her mind. But she had learned the dangers of an unguarded mind and tongue a long time ago, even amongst those she counted as friends. No, his wife held herself as close to her own heart as he did to his.

"Podrick, what did you tell her about Shae?" _What could he possibly know about Shae? He'd never met her until I put her in Sansa's service, and then we were so careful._ He wanted to be angry at Pod for sharing his secrets, for not keeping his confidence, but he'd been in his wife's service longer now than he had been in his, and his wife had given him a knighthood. He couldn't blame Pod for being a bit indiscreet.

"Nothing, my lord. I told her I didn't know anything about it, that I only knew her as her handmaiden. Besides, she told me not to say anything you wouldn't want her to hear," he said, his words rushed. "Mostly, she wanted to know what was real in Shae's testimony at the trial and what was lies. She knew most of it was lies, of course, she just wanted to know the real truth of it."

Tyrion nodded. "That's fine, Pod."

There was a long silence between them as they walked the camp before Pod broke it to say one more thing. "For what it's worth, my lord, Lady Sansa has received quite a few offers from good men, and some very good offers from men who are at least decent and would treat her well, most likely. And she still chose to stay with you."

Tyrion mused over Pod's distinction, and his discernment that Sansa had chosen Tyrion after all. "Thank you, Podrick."

The young man nodded and kept looking straight ahead, uncertain of where Tyrion was leading them. Tyrion wasn't much certain himself, until he came to Daenerys's tent with Grey Worm standing guard outside.

"Pod, I need to speak with Queen Daenerys for a while," Tyrion said, uncertain whether Pod would stay or leave.

"I'll stay out here with her guard," Pod told him. "I doubt the queen wants one of Queen Sansa's sworn Queensguard in her tent."

Tyrion winked at him. "Clever lad."

Pod nodded to Greyworm and stood by him at the brazier under the tent's overhang that protected them from the worst of the wind and cold. Tyrion looked at the pair for a moment before entering the tent with a chuckle; a eunuch and a boy sex prodigy stand outside the tent of a dragon queen and a dwarf. The joke practically wrote itself.

As he'd anticipated, Yara Greyjoy was seated at Daenerys's side as she looked over letters while reclining on pillows and furs strewn on the floor in the corner by a low brazier. Where all the braziers in his and Sansa's tent stood tall for heat and light, he had to admit he'd grown fond of the Essos way of lounging about the floor with padding and pillows and trays of food and jugs of wine always within reach. It was less stuffy than Westerosi customs of always sitting in a proper seat, always with proper posture (always a pain in his back after a while). It was a more leisurely way of relaxing amongst friends. "My queen," he said, announcing himself with a nod of his head as he took off his cloak at the entrance.

"Lord Tyrion," Daenerys said, looking up to him from the parchment she held. She didn't bother to rise. She'd been more formal with him once, for a while after he first met her after the Second Siege of Meereen, but he'd been her trusted confidant for almost four years since that time. Familiarly, he took off his boots and fluffed a pillow before sitting and reclining a few feet away from her and Yara. He nodded to the latter, who gave him a curt nod in return.

He didn't approve of Daenerys's relationship with Yara—didn't trust her, didn't think her an appropriate consort, didn't like her or her jokes, no matter how similar they may sometimes be to Tyrion's own—and he'd told her multiple times it would not do for word to get out that she had a female lover when she took the Iron Throne. But time and time again, Daenerys had merely said, "Thank you for your counsel, Lord Tyrion." She'd said it in a manner as coolly as Sansa had used to say, "It would please me to please my lord." Different words coming from different positions of power, both with the same meaning: "Piss off."

Daenerys finished reading the letter with a three-headed dragon seal before handing it to Tyrion. "Aegon?" he guessed, taking it from her and skimming it over.

"Still vying for my hand," she told him. "I've offered to make him my heir, to give him Dragonstone, but he wants nothing less than to be King." Her voice was mixed parts exasperation, sadness, and anger.

"You could always tell him the truth of why you won't marry him," Tyrion suggested with a pointed look toward the Ironborn at Daenerys's side.

Daenerys pursed her lips before turning to her lover, who was trailing idle kisses along her shoulder. "Would you leave us?"

Yara placed a kiss on her lips. "As my dragon queen commands." She gave Daenerys's rear a squeeze before rising, walking to the tent flap, putting on her boots, swordbelt, cloak, and gloves before giving Daenerys a flirtatious wink and leaving with a flourish.

"You know full well that you are the only person I entrust with that secret," she said, though her voice did waver. "No, I cannot tell him. I cannot tell him I am barren. You can vouch for his honor all you like, but I cannot trust him not to herald that fact across the Seven Kingdoms to undermine my campaign should he know the truth. You must find a way to broker a peace with him, Lord Tyrion. Find some way to draw him into the fold. And to bring the Dornish and the Tyrells with him."

Tyrion nodded. "As you wish, Your Grace. I only suggest it because it is indeed an option."

"One I have dispatched several times. I grow weary of your repeated options." There it is, that Targaryen temper. But unlike her father, Daenerys was capable of reining it in before turning to burning people alive as a default. "No, he will be my heir. We just have to figure out a way to bring him onto our side." She pursed her lips.

Gently, Tyrion reached out a hand to lay over hers. "Let's worry about the campaign north of the Wall, first, Your Grace. The situation with Aegon will still be here when we return."

With a sigh, she nodded. "And how are things between you and your wife?" she asked, and Tyrion could see the curiosity sparked in her eyes. After everything he'd told her of how Sansa hated him, of how he wanted an annulment to make an end of it, he was well aware how much a fool he looked for turning his opinion around so violently.

"She... she's warming to me, surprisingly." At least, Tyrion hoped this morning's retreat was only a minor setback, nothing to keep them from moving forward. As he reminded himself repeatedly, _she_ had kissed _him_. _That_ was something he hadn't forced on her. Daenerys raised an eyebrow at him and he shrugged, trying not to let his feelings for Sansa get the better of him. "She wants peace between the Lannisters and the Starks under your rule just as much as either of us do, and she thinks continuing our marriage is the best way to do it."

"And you?" Daenerys asked. "The last I remember, you thought she'd betrayed you."

Tyrion shook his head. "She didn't, apparently. I didn't even ask, it just came up. It was Petyr Baelish, whom she's already taken care of," Tyrion told her with a smirk. "And Olenna Tyrell. Though I should warn you, she most definitely means to exact her vengeance on Lady Olenna." Tyrion didn't include himself in the matter, but he was with Sansa on this. Tyrion would pay his debt to the Queen of Thorns, one way or another.

Daenerys shrugged. "I'm sure many will die by the end of all this. One aging matriarch's death to appease my Hand and his wife, a powerful ally in her own right, is a small concession. Consider her life yours and your wife's."

Tyrion gave her a small smile. "Sansa will be pleased." Tyrion reached over to a tray with cups and a pitcher of wine and poured himself a cup. It was Volantene, and not as good as the Dornish Red Sansa had, but it would do.

"You didn't answer my question. Do you want to be married to her still?"

Tyrion took a moment so as not to sound too eager. "As reluctant as I am to admit it, it was one of my father's better ideas. At the time, perhaps it was folly. It was a forced marriage with a hostage between two families that hated each other. But now... well, Sansa's practically the head of House Stark, and I'm soon to be the head of House Lannister. She's also no longer a child and knows her own mind. Together, we are, in fact, in a much better position to make peace and keep it." Tyrion sipped at his wine and looked at the brazier before admitting something more personal. "That aside, she's beautiful, and an incredibly clever young woman. Yes, I want to keep her." Tyrion took another gulp of wine without looking at Daenerys.

"Good. I need the North and the West to work together, and this will make it that much easier if you two are of the same mind." Tyrion smirked, thinking how Sansa had said much the same thing, and Ned Stark, and Robert Baratheon before him. Though wise as he was, Tyrion would be the last man to point out to Daenerys that she had the same idea as "the Usurper." "Are you taking well to things on the other side of camp?"

Tyrion shrugged, still staring into the flames. "Sansa's assigned my former squire, now a knight, to my personal protection, and sent for a cousin to be my squire, and the lad only just arrived. He seems clever enough, and he knows my family, so he should do well. The Night's Watch guards are friendly enough, and the Knights of the Vale tolerate me. All in all, I prefer it. Eunuchs always did unnerve me. You can never tell what they're thinking." At that, someone entered the tent, and both he and Daenerys looked. "Ah, Lord Varys! Perfect timing!"

"Lord Tyrion. Your Grace," he greeted them. "I believe Prince Aegon has sent you another letter?"

"He has. And my answer to his proposals is still no, I'm afraid, Lord Varys," Daenerys answered, and Tyrion passed Aegon's letter to Varys, acting as Aegon's agent to Daenerys since he'd fled King's Landing as the truth of his loyalties became known to Cersei. He'd met with them in Pentos. With reservation, Tyrion had vouched for him. Varys could have come to them claiming to support Daenerys, but rather he had been open about supporting Aegon, and merely wishing to act as a mediator between the last two Targaryens as they vied for the Iron Throne. Tyrion trusted in that, but no more. He took every Whisper Varys passed on with a grain of salt. Varys was not beholden to Daenerys's well-being, only to an alliance. If he was telling them information, it was for a reason, and thankfully Daenerys was just as leery of the man as Tyrion was. He'd worked too long beside Varys when Tyrion had been Hand to Joffrey not to know exactly what Varys was capable of and how well he could hide his plots until they were done.

"A pity. Do you have a counter-offer?"

"Only what I've offered previously: to make him my heir, first in line to the throne after myself. To make him a prince. To gift him Dragonstone. To grant him a seat on the Small Council."

"But not the position of Hand?" Varys said, his shifty eyes glancing to Tyrion before returning to Daenerys.

Daenerys considered her words before answering. "I'm well-served with Lord Tyrion as my Hand, so not immediately. However," she said slowly, and Tyrion was curious. This was new. "Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa may, in a few years' time, wish to return to Casterly Rock in the West," she said with a glance at him, and he tilted his head for her to continue. "At that time, when Lord Tyrion steps down, if Aegon has served me well in another post on the Council, I would name him my Hand."

Varys looked between her and Tyrion. "I was under the impression that Lord Tyrion intended to pursue an annulment?"

Tyrion narrowed his eyes. What did Varys care of his marriage with Sansa? "We're discussing options," he said vaguely, his voice firm, and he left it at that.

Varys looked at him impassively for a moment before nodding. "I wish you both the best. It's always trying to rise up out of such... forced situations." His attention returned to Daenerys. "Would you like me to take your terms to Aegon myself, or will you be writing him as usual?"

"Writing him. No need to subject you to travel all the way to Dorne," she told him nonchalantly. The eunuch bowed his head, said his courtesies, and left as quickly as he'd come. As he was gone, she added, "I certainly don't want him telling Aegon in-person any more than he can fit in a letter."

"Considering he doesn't trust letters all that much and is cut off from most of his Little Birds up here on the Wall, I'd tend to agree with your decision." He frowned before adding, "Did his interest in mine and Sansa's affairs seem at all unusual to you?"

Daenerys shrugged, clearly not as surprised as he was. "It's an interesting development for anyone. You made no secret of your intent to annul over the past four years, and within days of seeing her again, you've changed your mind. Certainly makes one wonder what kind of seductress she is if she's alluring enough to tempt even the well-experienced hatred of Tyrion Lannister," Daenerys said with a wink, but Tyrion frowned at the insinuation.

"Sansa's not like that." He rose from his seat, not wishing to discuss the matter any further. He was about to leave when he saw a bowl of fruit on a table and thought of something. "Do you mind if I have one of those crates of lemons we brought over from Braavos? Sansa loves lemon cakes, and seeing as there weren't any at last night's feast, she's probably not been able to get her hands on them from Dorne."

Daenerys raised her own glass of wine. "If I can help bring peace between the North and West at the cost of a crate of lemons, it'll be a bargain. Take twenty if you like."

Tyrion gave her a cheeky wink, drained his cup of wine, set it on the table, then nodded to her. "Your Grace." With that, he dressed, fetched Pod, and dropped by one of the kitchen tents to find a crate of lemons.

"This is why you wanted to bring me along?" Pod asked him as he carried the crate of fruit across the wintry encampment.

"I hadn't planned on it, but truly, I couldn't carry that thing, so yes, I'm glad you're here." Tyrion smiled at him.

"Remind me to send for Ty the next time you ask me to escort you anywhere," Pod grumbled.

"Ah, Ser Podrick, do you resent your humble past with me?" Tyrion was being an ass, but it was just a way to pass the time as they returned to the Northern camp.

"I don't resent it, my lord. I just have no wish to go back to washing your sheets and clearing your table and carrying your ledgers."

Tyrion laughed at that. "Fair enough."

Tyrion and Pod stopped by the cook's tent long enough to deliver the lemons and ask for a lunch to be served for him, and he found Jeyne there.

"My lord," she greeted him tersely.

"Jeyne. I brought some lemons for my wife to have lemon cakes tonight after dinner. Could I ask you to see to that?"

Jeyne looked suspiciously at the crate of innocent looking citrus fruits before looking back to him.

"I'm not trying to poison her, I promise," Tyrion assured her. "I just know they're her favorite and wanted to do something special."

After a moment, Jeyne nodded. "I'll see they get to the baker and that they use her favorite recipe."

Tyrion bowed his head in thanks. "I'm obliged to you, my lady. May I ask—I've hesitated to ask Sansa, but what has my family done to you? You wouldn't hate me so ardently if you hadn't lost someone to my family."

Jeyne drew herself up. "My father was Vayon Poole, steward to Lord Eddard Stark and Winterfell for years before your family betrayed Lord Eddard and put his household to the sword." Her lip quivered. "As far as I know, my father's head is still on a spike in King's Landing."

Tyrion hesitated to contradict her; while her father's head most like had been dipped in tar for Joffrey to preserve it, tar only did so much. He remembered giving the order himself to have the heads removed and matched with their bodies. If it never made it back to Winterfell, it would have been discarded years ago. "My lady, Jeyne," he addressed her. He found it hard to hold her hateful gaze, just as he'd found it difficult to hold Sansa's immediately following the Red Wedding. "I was not in King's Landing at the time. If I had been, I would have done everything in my power to keep Ned Stark and his men, including your father, alive." That was most likely a lie; he would have cared mostly for Ned Stark's value, not Vayon Poole's, but the words sounded kind. "The actions of my sister and her tyrant of a son led to a war that has caused death and suffering for so many. I cannot apologize enough for their actions. If there is anything that I can do for you, Jeyne, do not hesitate to ask it. For the debt my family has inflicted upon you, and for Sansa's sake." He touched her hand briefly then where it rested on the table next to the lemon crate before nodding his head goodbye and leaving with Pod.

"She's not going to forgive me, is she?" he asked Pod once they were out of earshot.

"Not in the slightest." Pod's voice dropped. "You have no idea what she's been through, my lord. After King's Landing, Petyr Baelish had her in his keeping, and he... he wasn't kind to her. And then he passed her off as Arya Stark to marry to Ramsay Bolton and, well, I'm not sure if Lady Sansa's told you what Ramsay was like?"

Tyrion nodded, paling at the thought of that sweet young friend of Sansa's being wed to a monster like that. "Apparently she's lucky to have kept her fingers."

"And he liked her pretty in the face, but that was one of the few mercies she had," Pod added in a low voice. "She's loyal to Sansa and trusts no one else. I... I've tried befriending her, and she won't speak a word."

"Befriending... Pod, do you have feelings for her?" Tyrion teased, hoping for a lighter subject, but Pod shook his head.

"No. She just... she just looks lonely, my lord. I thought she could use another friend."

Tyrion frowned. "Might she not be happier in Winterfell, with more ladies for company?"

"She was miserable when we stayed there as Lady Sansa tended to Lord Rickon. After everything Ramsay did to her there..."

"Ah. Say no more." Tyrion remembered how Sansa would pale whenever they would walk the steps to Baelor's Sept where her father had been killed. And how she had blanched at the thought of staying even a night in the Tower of the Hand for fear of being haunted by ghosts of her father's men after he'd taken her there following Joffrey's beating in retribution for Robb's victory at Oxcross. _Perhaps it's a blessing that Cersei had it burned to the ground and rebuilt_ , he thought, _if Sansa and I are to share it once we take King's Landing and the Iron Throne for Daenerys_. He could only imagine Jeyne's horror at having to walk the same halls where she'd been abused by such a monster for gods know how long.

In his mind, he wondered if Jeyne might not be happier with Sansa at Casterly Rock? A new place, with no terrible memories. Indeed, he wondered if the same might not be said for Sansa, if perhaps that was just another reason she wanted to remain wed to him. She'd rebuffed his idea to take her to Casterly Rock once before, but apparently she'd changed her mind. _No, she hadn't rebuffed it. She had merely said,_ "I shall go wherever my lord husband wishes." _The same kind of answer she gave to anything he'd said at the time. The kind that told him nothing of who she really was, of what she really wanted._ Tyrion frowned. He wished he knew Sansa better in King's Landing. Even if he knew she hated and despised him, at least it would give him a measure of how she felt now, how her feelings had changed. No, he really knew nothing of her, he was now coming to realize, and that was what had him reeling every time she did something unexpected. _Like kiss him..._

The memory of her lips came back to him just as they reached his and Sansa's tent. It wasn't long after he settled at the table that his lunch came from the cook's boy, and he asked Podrick to join him. The two didn't talk much; Tyrion just didn't want to eat alone. He should have been hungrier. It was long past midday, and he and Podrick had walked quite the distance through the camps, but he scarce picked at his food, opting for ample refills of his wine instead. The two finished their meal, Pod grudgingly stacked the plates and set them aside for Ty to clear up later, and he left Tyrion to his thoughts. With a sigh, and clueless as to anything else he could do to remedy his situation with Sansa until she returned for dinner, he found the book he'd abandoned the previous day and picked up reading where he'd left off. _If only marriages were quite so static and predictable_ , Tyrion mused as he turned the page.


	9. Sansa V: The Things I Have in You

**_Sorry again for the long gap between chapters. Real life has been a nightmare, but I'm finally starting to catch up with it. This chapter was also just difficult for me to finish and have it come off believable, so hopefully the next few chapters will be quicker in updating. As always, thanks for reading and reviewing, and enjoy!_**

* * *

 _Chapter 9_

 _Sansa V: The Things I Have in You_

The cold air at the top of the Wall bit at Sansa's lungs with every breath, but it was worth it. The first time she'd come up here with Jon and seen the views from both sides of the wall, exasperated with marriage and men altogether, she'd jokingly asked, "Can women pledge the Night's Watch vows?" The sky was clear today, and Sansa could see for miles north and south.

Her day had been spent coordinating with Jon and Edd and the Knights of the Vale to transition the bulk of the duties of the Wall to the Vale men as the Night's Watch would head north with Daenerys. Jon would be going with them, so truly, as Robert had no idea what he was doing, Sansa would rule at the Wall and be in command, and this time, for the first time, without her big brother at her side. She was nervous, but she also knew the Corbrays, Royces, and Waynwoods would serve her well in his absence. The meetings had been done for over an hour now, but she wanted to come up here to think. She didn't come up here to clear her mind often, but it always worked when she did. She hoped her luck would keep as she mulled over her feelings about Tyrion.

Her belly churned with the tension that Tyrion's kiss had wrought on her. When she'd decided to remain married to him, she was well aware that it would be impossible to have a marriage without affection as they'd attempted to do in King's Landing, especially if both the heirs to Casterly Rock and Winterfell would depend on them. She'd even hoped, in time, she might be comfortable with him. But the past two days had thrown her off her guard. She'd found herself even more comfortable with Tyrion than she'd anticipated. She didn't mind sharing a bed with him as she once did, rather she enjoyed it, his closeness and warmth. She enjoyed his wit, his self-deprecating humor and charm that she'd been too afraid to enjoy in King's Landing. She enjoyed his kindness, his concern for her, his tenderness as he'd soothed her when she'd been upset over Rickon. Far from simply coming to enjoying her husband's company, she now felt desirous of it.

It scared her. There were times when she was with him when she didn't feel herself. She didn't think clearly, she felt almost giddy. The last time she had such thoughts were when she'd only just been betrothed to Joffrey, still believing him to be the gallant prince she'd always dreamed about. Or when she'd dreamed of leaving King's Landing for Highgarden to marry Willas Tyrell and play with puppies and falcons in the warm rose gardens of the Reach. And those hopes and dreams had always been swiftly dispatched through no fault of her own. What would make this any different?

 _Everything_ , she told herself defiantly. Despite having lapses with Tyrion, whom she had come to trust, more or less, she was not the foolish, thoughtless little girl she had been. And she had her own power. The only ones with more power than her were Daenerys and the gods, and she couldn't see Daenerys offering an objection. As for the gods, well, her belief in them was the only reason she was still wed to Tyrion, why she hadn't forsaken him. It would be a cruel jape if they would dispatch her blooming happiness with the man she'd been forcibly wed to and now accepted under their eyes.

Was that all her running away boiled down to? Fear of feeling something, of losing it? She chided herself as she came to that conclusion. If that was what she was afraid of, she might as well consign herself as a septa now, or even throw herself off the top of the Wall. Though now that Baelor's Sept was gone courtesy of her sister-in-law, she supposed even becoming a Septa was out of the question. And she would not end her life, end the Stark bloodline, that was out of the question. No, she was willing to risk her heart. One more time, with the man who had protected her and helped her at every turn, for no gain of his own; she would let herself try to love him.

With a blush, she remembered the way he'd looked at her on her thirteenth nameday. Sansa could tell he'd tried to hide that look for her comfort, but he'd failed miserably. Even Margaery, bless her, had told her afterward how Tyrion had seemed positively enchanted at the very sight of her. He was a romantic. He was cynical as life had made him, but just as she'd adored tales and songs of fair maidens and brave knights as a little girl, he'd been shaped by books and stories of heroics and dragons and love and honor. She'd recognized that in him even in King's Landing. In moments when she doubted Ser Dontos would take her from King's Landing, when she tried to resign herself to a life amongst the Lannisters, she would muse on that, that perhaps they had more in common than she gave him credit for. That, in time, they might come to find maybe not love, but at least affection.

But now, since she'd grown during their separation, she wouldn't even rule out love. She didn't dare hope for it aloud, to do so would curse the very notion, but she wouldn't rule it out. Growing up with the parents she did, watching them as she did, she would never rule out that love could arise unbidden, anywhere. It just flustered her because, after six months of picturing a friendly marriage at most, working side by side to rule in King's Landing, and in the West, making a new House Lannister as respected as Tywin Lannister had made it but as loved, not feared, as House Stark was, as well, she'd never even considered she could feel this strongly about her husband. It was an arranged marriage, one not particularly wanted by either. He wanted her claim on Winterfell, true enough, she wasn't so naive as to believe he didn't, but he'd never wanted a child bride. _He would have given it up_ , she recalled. _"...they would have wed you to my cousin Lancel. Perhaps you would prefer that. He is nearer your age, and fairer to look upon. If that is your wish, say so, and I will end this farce."_ She remembered not wanting to marry any Lannister in that moment, but at least she knew Tyrion. She knew he was kind. He had saved her from Joffrey before, and perhaps would again, she'd hoped.

And now that Winterfell was out of his reach and he would have Casterly Rock, that only left her, she realized. She, Sansa, was the only reason he had to keep this marriage. That he wanted her, for no other reason than who she was. Maybe it was just because she was beautiful, but she doubted it; he complimented her wit, her charm, her intelligence as often as he complimented her beauty. _And Tyrion's smart; he knows beauty fades. If I were only a pretty face, he'd grow terribly bored, and he knows it._ Sansa smirked at herself. That's all she had been at one time, a pretty face to marry and bear children ***** , but she had made herself so much more. And Tyrion saw that, and he respected it. As irreverent as her husband was, he didn't respect much, but he did respect that.

 _Respect_. After years in King's Landing of being the disgraced daughter of the traitor Ned Stark, after being sullied with the reputation of being Petyr Baelish's bastard daughter Alayne Stone, after being beaten and kissed and fondled against her will, she wanted respect above all. Power was a fine thing and something to be sought, as well, but most of all, she just wanted respect. The respect she'd grown up believing she was entitled to simply because she was a Lady. She now knew she had to earn it, and she'd done her best. But Tyrion had always given her his respect. Unquestioningly, ever since she met him properly upon his return to King's Landing on Joffrey's nameday.

 _Yes,_ she decided. No matter how afraid she was that she might be hurt yet again, she wanted this. She wanted this marriage with Tyrion, with everything that he could give her. He could give her everything she truly wanted and needed, and maybe facets of a marriage she hadn't even contemplated before, hadn't dared hope for. Whatever he asked of her, she would give to him, for she knew without a doubt he would do the same for her.

Under her cloak, she rubbed her gloved hands together. She felt like a weight had been lifted off of her. She always wracked herself over making the right choices; years of making the wrong ones had made her wary of acting carelessly. But this, this made sense in every possible way Sansa could think of. Now all that was needed was to live her marriage, live her life. That was hardly the easy part in all this, but at least she would have this moment of clarity, standing atop the Wall, remembering thinking through all of her options and deciding, definitively, that this was what she wanted. If she ever doubted herself again, she would remember this moment and cling to the certainty she held now.

With a nod, she turned around away from the Real North, as the Free Folk called it, and navigated the icy maze of walls that shielded the men atop the Wall from the worst of the crosswinds. The labyrinth did nothing to abate the cold, but it took away the worst part of its bite, at least.

Brienne was waiting for her by the lift, and she rang the bell loudly before joining Sansa in the iron cage and shutting and latching the creaking door behind her. Sansa turned round to watch as she descended to the ground, as her camp slowly grew from looking like wooden children's toys of a war camp to becoming the real thing. Her camp disappeared as they sank below the level of Castle Black's outer walls, and finally, the winch came to a stop. Brienne opened the gate for Sansa, and she nodded at Edd who stood along the walkway outside his quarters overlooking the yard. Jon was there, and she nodded to him as well, but he was busy, so she didn't stop. He was helping the Rangers to better train the Stewards and Builders on fighting the Others. They were all nervous, but they'd all be north of the Wall soon, and Sansa knew they'd need every scrap of knowledge and practice her brother could give them.

Sansa gave a shaky breath as she returned to her and Tyrion's tent. When she entered, Jeyne was tidying up the table, and stopped to help her remove her cloak. Sansa noticed that things had changed; there was a second bookshelf, filled to the brim with tomes, and a second desk set to the side of Sansa's, the top of which was already scattered with letters, quills, and inkpots, and Ty was already set to tidying it. In the corner next to Tyrion's side of the bed, Tyrion's trunks were stacked up, but she noticed her dressing screen had been moved further out into the tent, and a second trunk of clothing hid behind it. He was properly unpacked and living with her, it seemed. She smiled at that.

As for her husband, he sat at the chaise reading as Jeyne and Ty did their duties around them. When he saw her, he sat up and laid the book down on the table at the arm of the chaise. With a smile, Sansa went to him and sat where his feet were a moment earlier and took off her boots. Jeyne took them and set them by the brazier nearest the tent flap to dry and warm.

"You've unpacked," she commented as Tyrion sat beside her, and he picked up on the topic.

"Yes, well, Ty looked bored, and I figured it was about time." He looked around. "I don't have all that much, only what I've acquired since entering Daenerys's service, but it suffices."

Sansa smirked. "It looks like you had one trunk with nothing but books," she said, nodding to the full bookshelf next to her own that held ledgers, tomes about the White Walkers, a few of her favorite fairy tales that she indulged on occasion after a bit of wine, and some trinkets from Winterfell she'd found and put on display.

"Ah, well, you know me," he said with a chuckle, and Sansa returned it.

He pressed his lips together before opening his mouth as if to say something, but he instead turned to Jeyne and Ty. "Could you leave us, please?"

Ty obeyed promptly with a nod and said his courtesies as he left. Jeyne, on the other hand, quickly finished the task she'd started of rearranging the fruit in the bowl on the table before looking at Sansa. Sansa gave a nod before she gave a curtsy and a terse, "My lady, my lord." Clearly, she didn't like taking orders from a Lannister. Sansa could scarce blame her for that. Once she had donned her cloak and left them, the tent felt eerily quiet as they sat on the chaise with the tension of their previous kiss hanging in the air around them.

Sansa took a deep breath and was about to speak when Tyrion rose only to stand in front of her. Then, his eyes locked on hers, he knelt and took her hands in his. Sansa looked at him questioningly, but he spoke before she could inquire. "Sansa, I want to apologize for how I behaved earlier."

"Tyrion—" Sansa tried to interrupt him, but he wouldn't allow her.

"No, please. I... I swore to you on our wedding night that I would not touch you until you wanted me to, and I meant that in every sense. Just because you were ready for a simple kiss did not give me the right to push you and demand rights to your mouth, to touch you as I did."

"Tyrion," Sansa tried again, but again, he wouldn't let her speak.

"Sansa, I can offer no defense beyond that it has been quite a while since I've known the company of a woman, and I lost myself in your scent, your taste, your warmth, but that's no defense at all for forgetting my vow to you. My lady, I am truly sorry, and I swear I shall not push you again."

All this, he said with his eyes locked on hers. She felt his sincerity. But all she could do was give a small smile before saying, "You've been working on that all afternoon, haven't you?" Her smile grew, and Tyrion's cheeks colored before her.

"The better part of a few hours, yes." He looked at her smile with a furrowed brow.

Gently, Sansa pulled on his hands, and he rose to his feet. As awkward as his movements were, he ended up using her hands as a bolster as he lifted himself from one of his stunted legs, but Sansa supported him until he stood firm and said nothing of it.

"I came back to apologize to you, Tyrion," she said softly. "For leaving so abruptly."

Tyrion shook his head. "No, I pushed you, Sansa. I've always known you'd be a dutiful wife, so much so you wouldn't reject me in anything—"

At that, Sansa scoffed derisively, and Tyrion looked at her, caught off guard. "Do you truly still think me nothing more than dutiful to you, Tyrion? I am a Queen. My duty is to myself, my people, and my family. I'm afraid my husband comes a distant fourth in that." More gently, she added, "And in case you don't recall correctly, I did reject you when I became uncomfortable. I rose and walked away. The dutiful little girl you knew would have sat there and taken your affections until _you_ realized I was uncomfortable. She would never have risen and left as I did."

Tyrion regarded her with a slight frown on his lips at that. "Tyrion, you did not push me into kissing you. I enjoyed the kiss. I wanted it. I left because, well..." Sansa blushed to recall it, let alone talk about it. "I left because I felt your... your manhood against my leg, and I wasn't certain I was ready to be bedded just yet, midday and so suddenly after our first proper kiss."

It was Tyrion's turn again to redden at that, and Sansa felt a flash of shame as she remembered how he'd turned the same shade during their wedding. But it was a brief pang of guilt and was soon assuaged as Tyrion's hands holding her own as he stood before her began to rub circles on the back of her hands with his thumbs.

"My lady, I had no intention of doing any such thing so quickly." There was a flirtatious twinkle in his eye, but it wasn't the look of lust she knew well. "I may have gotten carried away in my affections for you, but I had no purpose to remove that beautiful blue dress of yours just yet." He looked down to her chest briefly before his eyes wander to the side, a smile still fixed on his lips. "I may have been aroused by your touch and kisses, but I wouldn't ask anything like that from you so soon after being reunited, Sansa."

He looked back to her. He considered her for a moment, and Sansa saw his tongue dart across his lower lip, a bit dry from Winter's cold and winds. "I'd like to do things now as I would have in King's Landing, had our circumstances been different. We were wed suddenly, and I... I would have come to you before the wedding were I allowed. I would... I would have tried to court you. At least make marrying a dwarf a bit more palatable—"

"Tyrion," she chided him.

"Come now, Sansa. You have no idea how many people my father tried to match me off to before you—including your aunt, if you must know," he added with a dark chuckle. "We both know marrying my family's hostage was the only way I was likely to have a respectable wedding." He said it spitefully, practically spitting off to the side as he said it.

Sansa released one of her hands from his and placed it on his cheek, her thumb rubbing gently along his scar. "Don't," she said softly. "Do you have any idea how many days since we were wed I've been thankful it was you and no other that I was wed to?" She looked firmly into his eyes as he looked at her curiously at that statement. "You have always been good to me. Always. The best you could have been under the circumstances, anyway. And that is so much more than I can say for so many others. I know who you really are, and you're who I want by my side."

"Who I really am," Tyrion scoffed. "I'm no knight in shining armor, Sansa."

"No. And I don't care." She said it with complete conviction, and she could see the confusion in his eyes. "I don't need a knight in shining armor, or some brave, battle-tested hero. That's what gold and guards are for." He snorted at that, and a smile came to his lips, one she mirrored. "Gold can't buy wit, or charm, or kindness, or honor. It can't buy any of the things I have in you."

At that, Sansa kissed him. It wasn't a deep kiss; she still wasn't sure of that. But she lingered, long enough that she hoped Tyrion felt her sincerity through it. When she pulled away, a smile flitted across his lips, and she felt she'd got through to him, at least a little. She smiled and leaned into his shoulder. It was new, being this close to Tyrion, and she was nervous for a moment as her cheek touched the velvet of his doublet. But then his hands found their way to her shoulders, he moved closer to her, and his arms wrapped loosely around her neck as her hands raised to his sides. She closed her eyes and listened to his heartbeat.

It was soothing, being held in Tyrion's embrace, letting herself lean into him like this, letting herself be comforted. But before long, she felt herself begin to blush; some sensibilities of a lady simply couldn't be unlearned, no matter how little one's lord husband gave a damn about such things. Sansa withdrew and saw where Tyrion had closed his eyes as well. His hands left a tingle in their wake as they trailed down her shoulders and arms to take her hands in his.

Suddenly, a yawn came over Sansa, and she took back her right hand to cover it.

"Tired?"

Sansa nodded grudgingly. "I spent most of the day atop the Wall, and the cold and wind wears on even us Northerners after a while." She looked to the bed. "I might lie down for a bit before dinner, actually."

Tyrion raised her left hand to his lips before backing away and offering to steady her as she rose from the chaise. As she did so, she noticed the book that Tyrion had been reading before she'd entered. She picked it up from where it sat on the table beside the chaise. It was one well familiar to her; it was her childhood songbook, where she'd written the lyrics of all of her favorite songs. She'd left it behind in Winterfell for Rickon when she, Arya, and father had left for King's Landing. Fondly, she thumbed over the rough leather cover embossed with a silver leaf direwolf and opened it to the pages Tyrion had left off from. " _The Winter Maid._ Father used to sing this one to me whenever I got mad at Robb or Arya for teasing me, or ruining my dress or needlework, or some nights when I just couldn't fall asleep."

"Ned Stark sang?" Tyrion asked, a bemused look on his face.

Sansa smiled wryly at the memory and she nodded. "Only for me and mother. When I was little and upset, I'd go to his solar, and he'd sit with me in the window seat overlooking the greenhouse and south down the Kingsroad. He'd sing quite a few songs, but _The Winter Maid_ was one of my favorites." Sansa came out of her reverie and saw her husband watching her with a fond smile. "Why the sudden interest in songs and my terrible girlhood penmanship?"

Tyrion shrugged. "I was browsing your bookshelf and was curious. When I flipped through it, I realized just how many Northern songs I don't know. Quite interesting lyrics, some of them."

"Jon was teasing me just this morning that I'd have to add _The Winter Queen's Revenge_ into this." Sansa rolled her eyes before stifling another yawn. Sansa tenderly closed the cover and handed it back to him. "Wake me for dinner, if you wouldn't mind?"

Sansa rounded the end of the chaise before she turned back as Tyrion asked, "Would you like me to read to you?" Sansa looked at him curiously before realizing he was looking at the bed and back to her. "Forgive me, you mentioned your father singing to you and thought you might..." Tyrion blushed and shook his head, looking away. "It was a foolish idea. Please, enjoy your rest."

Sansa smiled wryly. "Tyrion Lannister, were you trying to be romantic?"

He looked at her, an embarrassed smirk fixed on his lips. "I was trying, yes. Poorly, apparently."

Sansa's smile never left her lips as she climbed onto the furs atop their bed, dragging a knit throw along with her that was folded at the foot of the bed. Nestled among the pillows, she looked at Tyrion, who was still shaking his head at himself. "Were you just teasing, or are you going to read to me?" Tyrion looked up at her, eyebrows raised, and a smile spread across his lips as he slowly walked round to his side of the bed and joined her. Sansa spread out the knit throw atop their legs as he sat up against the pillows close to her. Once he was settled, she pulled it up over her shoulders and curled in close to him as he opened up her songbook and started to read the lyrics. Some of the Northern songs she hadn't heard in so long she truly had forgotten some of the verses, but others were as etched on her heart. Thoughtlessly, she started to hum the melody along with Tyrion's reading. He stopped reading for a moment, but when he carried on, Sansa could hear the smile in his words.

The next song was a well-known tune, _The Seasons of My Love_ , and Sansa was surprised when Tyrion started to sing it softly. She didn't react, afraid she might startle him out of whatever mood had her normally oh-so-dignified husband singing to her, but she couldn't help the smile she pressed into the blanket that tucked up by her chin. He had a deep, rich speaking voice, and Sansa shouldn't have been surprised to hear he could sing well, but she was, as much as Tyrion had been to learn her father had sung for her. Just as she drifted off to sleep, Tyrion sang her favorite verse, " _I loved a maid as red as autumn with sunset in her hair..."_

* * *

When Sansa awoke, she didn't want to move, she was so comfortable. She clung to sleep, feeling only that she was warm and happy and safe, something she hadn't felt so strongly in a very long time. Eventually, her mind dragged her out of her rest, and she registered the heartbeat beneath her, the breathing, the gentle rise and fall of Tyrion's chest under her head. Her eyes opened, and she saw her songbook set in Tyrion's lap. In her sleep, she'd moved to rest her head atop his chest and her right arm hugged round him, her fingers nestled into the pillows behind his back. Tyrion's right arm was laid across her shoulders, and she felt the fingers of his left hand touching her hair.

Slowly, Sansa rose up and away from Tyrion, his fingers slipping through her hair. When she turned her head, she saw him just opening his eyes; clearly he'd fallen asleep as well. He blinked his eyes a few times before his gaze settled on her as she held herself over him. Sansa felt a blush creep to his cheeks at the not-quite-innocent smile that fixed itself upon her husband's cheeks as he took in the sight of her.

"Did you sleep well, Sansa?" he asked as she drew back to lie at his side again.

Sansa nodded. "And you?"

"Fairly well. Didn't think I needed it, but apparently my wife knows better than I do." He winked at her, and she gave him a smirk in return.

"I'm sorry for keeping you here; I hadn't meant to."

"Oh Sansa," Tyrion sighed, curling his arm under her shoulders to hold her again. "There are many terrible things in this world. Being kept in bed for an evening by a beautiful young wife is not one of them."

Sansa chuckled at that, turning her face into his side, and his arm tightened round her as he gave a contented sigh.

As they lay there, Sansa couldn't help but wonder if this was what it would be like, being married to Tyrion. Even when they'd been in King's Landing, she'd known his reputation as a man who liked to drink with thieves and bed whores, as she'd once overheard Tywin chiding his son. But when they'd been married, she'd seen no evidence of it. Ser Bronn wasn't the knight in shining armor that she'd always envisioned from the stories, but so few knights in King's Landing had been, and he'd always been civil with her. And while Tyrion had certainly made a few jokes that had caused Sansa to blush before he had apologized, remembering himself, she'd never thought him terribly inappropriate, not nearly so much as his family would have everyone believe. She looked up at him and saw he'd closed his eyes again, a small smile on his lips, his thumb rubbing circles into her shoulder. Deep down, was he what everyone said he was—was he just behaving for her—or was this the real Tyrion, the truth of the man she'd spend the rest of her life with? She hoped so. This peace, this relaxed happiness, this is what she wanted. It wasn't the romantic fairy tales she'd dreamed of as a girl, but she was no little girl any longer, and a good friend to hold her and comfort her through the rest of her evenings sounded idyllic to Sansa.

"Tyrion," Sansa started hesitantly. "Is... is this what it was like... was it like this when you were married to Tysha?"

She felt him stiffen around her and worried that she shouldn't have asked; but she wanted to get to know him, all of him, his past and their future.

"This evening, you mean?" he said at last. Sansa nodded against his chest. He took a long while to answer, so long Sansa didn't think he would. Finally, he said, "Yes and no. She would sing to me, and we would kiss and hold each other, yes, but you're not Tysha, and I'm nothing of the boy I was when I was wed to her. Besides, I was only wed to her for two weeks. You and I have been wed for five years now." He gave her a kiss on the forehead and settled back into silence.

Sansa wanted him to go on, but apparently that was all she would get out of him for tonight. "Tyrion, I want you to tell me if I do something wrong," she said, realizing how stupid and vague that sounded. With a sigh, she elaborated. "I don't really know how to be married. It's been a long time since I've trusted anyone who wasn't family. And I shouldn't have just walked away earlier, I should have told you how I felt. I just..." Sansa pulled away from him and rolled to prop herself up on her elbows, looking Tyrion in the eye, and he was observing her with a furrowed brow, waiting to see where she was going with this; Sansa wished she knew herself. "With as complicated as everything is between us, with our past, with our families, with our positions, we need to be honest and open with each other. That's how my parents were, and they were happy, and they were good at ruling Winterfell. We need that if we're to rule Casterly Rock together, and King's Landing."

"We need trust," he said.

Sansa nodded and smiled. "Yes," she said, before she realized his tone wasn't exactly straightforward; there was an ironic undercurrent to it, and Sansa was about to ask what it was when Ty and Jeyne entered with dinner.

Their supper consisted of roast pork with potatoes, carrots, and spinach, which they paired with a few glasses of Arbor Gold. They ate in silence as Ty stood in the corner to serve them as needed.

 _Why would Tyrion be flippant about trust in a marriage? Did he think I was insinuating anything about Shae? Or..._

Suddenly it dawned on Sansa why trust would be a sensitive topic for Tyrion. "You know I ran away from King's Landing. That's why you don't trust me." Tyrion looked at her, swallowing his bite of carrots, and she then realized it was more than that. "You think I killed Joffrey?"

"Not anymore," he answered carefully, taking a drink of wine.

"But you did. Until this morning, you did, didn't you?" A sickening feeling came to her stomach. "That's why you were so bitter when we first met again. You thought I'd murdered Joffrey and left you to die for it."

Tyrion's jaw worked, and he looked at Ty, who promptly put on his cloak and left. "The thought had crossed my mind a time or two in the last five years."

Sansa laid down her knife and fork and stood from the table. She didn't know why she was so angry, but she was. Maybe he was even right to be mad that she'd left him without so much as a letter goodbye, but she was just a girl, held captive and married against her will. And he actually blamed her for leaving when she had the chance? And he thought her a murderer at thirteen. She hated Joffrey, yes, but so did half the city—did he really not know her at all?

"Sansa," Tyrion said. "Wait, please. At least finish your dinner."

"I'm not hungry, and I have letters I need to write," she lied.

"Please, at least have a lemon cake," he said, taking the lid off a platter that had been set to the side. "I had them made especially for you."

Sansa was tempted by the gesture; it had been so long since she'd had lemon cakes. But still she shook her head. "I'm not hungry." With that, she went to her desk. She saw his head bowed down in defeat, but she stuck by her resolve and sat down, shuffled some papers around, and finally found something to do.

As soon as was acceptable, Sansa tidied her desk and readied for bed, and still she didn't say anything to him. Her initial anger had passed, but she didn't even know what to say if she wanted to speak to him. There was nothing to say that would change their past, change her actions, change how he'd perceived her for five years. She felt like such an idiot for waxing on about truth and honesty in their marriage, and at this first obstacle, she had no idea what to say.

It wasn't long after she went to bed that he joined her, and she stayed on her side, turned away from him. It had been so easy to sleep like this when they'd been in King's Landing, but now she was torn in two; part of her was angry and wanted to stay away from him, the other part wanted to turn into him for comfort. She buried her face in her pillow. _Why is this so hard?_

She heard his sighs over the crackling of the braziers and finally spoke. When she did, her voice was low and cracked. "Is this what it was like for you, knowing how much I distrusted you just for being a Lannister?"

Tyrion sighed yet again. "I imagine so."

She felt him shifting in the bed, and suddenly his hand was on her shoulder. Grudgingly, she turned toward him. She didn't realize until she looked at him that she had tears in her eyes, blurring her vision of her husband's face.

"Sansa," he whispered, his voice tender. He reached up gently and wiped away her tears with his thumbs. Sansa's breath stuck in her chest as her emotions caught up with her, and she felt her lip begin to quiver as she turned into Tyrion's outstretched arms. Softly, Tyrion placed a kiss on her forehead before resting his chin on her hair as she tucked into his chest.

"I knew it wouldn't be easy, but I didn't think it would be this complicated," she muttered. Sansa sniffed and wrapped her arm around him, holding him close.

"I know." Tyrion swallowed, and then he rubbed his cheek on the top of her head. "Just give me some time, Sansa. We both just need time. We still barely know each other, and we have all the time in the world."

"You thought me a murderer for five years. You thought I'd betrayed you."

"And you're one hell of a woman to convince me so quickly that I was an idiot," he said, attempting a quip, but it fell flat. "I just... I just need to know the real you a bit more, Sansa. And I think you should come to know me as well."

Sansa nodded into his chest, and both tightened their hold on the other. It wasn't long, holding each other like that, before sleep took Sansa with one last hope that the morning would be better. That the morning would see them through the long night of doubt and hurt that Tyrion had held of her for five years. It was a lot to hope for, but Sansa hoped nonetheless. That's what she had promised herself atop the Wall, after all: to never give up hope.

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 _* **A/N** : For anyone who gets mad at me for disparaging young Sansa like this, please know it's not actually me. This is my grown Sansa's opinion of her younger self, whom she blames for the follies that brought her so much hurt, and that brought death and destruction to her family and House. I got so into Sansa's head and wrote that line, and wanted to edit it out later but realized, it's perfectly in keeping with what my Sansa would think of herself, so I decided to leave it with this disclaimer before I started getting hate. I personally adore younger Sansa's strength of character and her determination to learn to lie just to survive despite being desperately naive, having grown up in a kinder world away from the duplicity of Court. But Sansa always takes this for granted in herself. She just sees it as surviving, that she didn't have a choice. She never really acknowledges the fact that not everyone could have done what she did, and so she never counts it as a character strength. So again, this disparaging comment is a bit of self-hatred on Sansa's part. Something she shares with her husband more than either of them suspect. ;-)_


	10. Tyrion V: A Lovely Day

**Hey look, I actually got a new chapter up! *ugly cry/laughing* Sorry if this seems a bit aimless, but I felt like Tyrion and Sansa just really needed some "day in the life" narrative to show a budding relationship, as well as some minor plot movements that could be combined in one chapter rather than making up their own. Anyway, enjoy, and here's to hoping I get the next chapter done faster than tortoise speed.**

* * *

 _Chapter 10_

 _Tyrion V: A Lovely Day_

Tyrion's eyes opened to the canopy of their bed as the sun rose to the east, casting a gray glow onto the velvet, wool, and furs that made up most of their bedding. He looked to his right, and Sansa was there, still fast asleep on her front, her face turned peacefully toward him, her fingers outstretched and brushing against his ribs. Gently, he picked up her hand and laid it on his chest, softly tracing her fingers while she slept. In King's Landing, she would have started wide awake at his touch. Now, she merely gave a sigh and settled her head more comfortably into her pillow. He looked back at the canopy, fingers still absent-mindedly trailing on the back of his wife's hand.

It had been almost a week since that emotional day when Sansa realized what he'd thought of her all those years apart, and he, of all people, still didn't know what to say to her.

"Please, forgive me, Tyrion," she'd asked a few nights ago as he'd held her in bed.

"There's nothing to forgive, Sansa. I don't blame you for leaving." It wasn't a lie, either. He might have resented her once for abandoning him to face the trial alone, but the more she opened up to him, the more he learned of just how miserable she had been in King's Landing beneath her armor of courtesy, the more surprised he was that she hadn't tried to run even sooner. As much as he'd tried to be kind to her and treat her as his proper wife then, he'd been foolishly naive not to realize how impossible it had been for her to see herself as anything other than a prisoner handed from one gaoler to the next amongst his family. Really, the only wonder he had was that she had chosen to stay with him after all that misery, despite her insistence that she really had thought kindly of him throughout their marriage. He couldn't see how she would—were he in her place, he sorely doubted he'd be so understanding and forgiving—but she'd always been a kinder soul than he had, and as much as he'd have to work to trust her, to set aside five years of feelings of doubt and betrayal, he wanted this marriage to succeed as much as she did, and so he didn't question her unfathomable willingness to remain his wife.

He was right, though, as well as truthful; there was nothing to forgive. She'd been a child surrounded by lions, and while he'd kept his word and not savaged her, who could ever blame a child for escaping the lion's den when she had the chance? But he still didn't trust her. That wasn't entirely her fault, either; she'd had secrets in their marriage, as had he. She had just as much reason to distrust him as he did her. And it was that, that he couldn't say that he trusted her, that was what still had Sansa upset a week later. The words "I want to trust you" weren't enough for her, though Tyrion had said them a dozen times. "I'm trying to trust you" and "I'll come to trust you" were just as useless, and often did nothing more than to summon a sadness to her eyes and a sullen silence as she'd find something to busy herself with at her desk or some errand or task to take her out of their tent.

A week later, and Tyrion didn't know what to say. He wasn't going to give up, nor was she, from what he could tell. She was too much a stubborn Northerner for that. But clever and perceptive as they both were, neither had yet to figure out what to say to the other, and it was maddening for him.

It wasn't long before Sansa stirred, breaking Tyrion from his thoughts as her fingertips curled into his nightshift before she stretched out her arm, as always; he knew she'd roll her eyes if he ever said it, but the manner in which Sansa awoke was simply adorable. The first few nights, her morning touch had taken his breath away, that she could be so comfortable with him. But now that he was used to it, the way she stretched out like a cat after a nap on a sunny windowsill every morning, without fail, was so endearing to him that he couldn't help the smirk that fixed itself on his lips as he watched her slowly awaken.

Her eyes opened and focused on him, and she gave him a small smile before a muffled "Good morning" uttered behind her hand as she stifled a yawn that rose to her lips.

"Good morning, Sansa," he said softly. He reached over to her face to brush a lock of hair behind her ear, earning a blush. After a moment, she gave a small sigh, and then rolled over to leave the warmth of their bed. That had been the way of it, for a week now. Where Tyrion needed touch and affection to read her, to better know her, Sansa treated those things as something to be approached only after trust was firmly in place. And so they were at an impasse as they lived together, coexisting much as they had in King's Landing, not entirely trusting the other but so wishing things could be different between the two of them. True, they spoke more; in the past week, Tyrion had come to know more about who Sansa truly was than he had in the months they'd shared together in King's Landing.

"What are your plans for today?" Sansa's voice called out to him, and he snapped out of his reverie to look at her across the breakfast table. He swallowed a bite of bacon and wiped the grease from around his lips before answering her.

"I need to walk the Dothraki camps with Missandei this afternoon," Tyrion told her. "They've never dealt with Winter like this in Essos, so Daenerys has asked me to make sure they have the supplies they need."

"I need to visit the Wildling camp this morning, and a few other errands. What do you say to keeping each other's company today?" She smiled at him then in that coy way only she could. If she didn't look so angelic, it would come off as mischievous.

Tyrion returned the smirk. "Are you sure you won't be put off by the barbarians?"

Sansa rolled her eyes. "I grew up surrounded by unshaven, stinking Northern warriors. I think I'll be fine." Tyrion chuckled, and they finished their breakfast quietly as they each read through their correspondences for the morning. They each took a moment at their respective desks to send out replies before donning layers for the Winter that lay outside the threshold of their tent.

"Your Grace. My lord," Lady Brienne greeted them as they stepped outside. Podrick stood as well and gave a nod to Tyrion.

"Lady Brienne, Ser Podrick. Would you mind accompanying my lord husband and I? We'll be walking the camps seeing that everyone is fit to bear the Winter weather. It'll be a long day, I'm afraid."

"As my Queen commands," Brienne said with a bow of her head. A smile played on her lips, but it diminished as she regarded him.

Tyrion knew the lady knight had reservations about him, and he was doing his best to earn the trust of Sansa's sworn sword. But after whatever disparaging comments she'd heard about him from her time with Lady Catelyn and his brother, Lady Brienne of Tarth had made it perfectly clear that she disdained the idea of Queen Sansa Stark of Winterfell keeping Tyrion Lannister as her husband and royal consort. He'd mentioned his concerns to Sansa, who had brushed them aside and told him of how Brienne had come to fondly regard his brother after getting to know him, despite Brienne's insistence otherwise. As prickly as she could seem, Sansa was convinced that Brienne was simply a cautious judge of character, and told him that she was certain she'd come around, just as Sansa had herself. Nevertheless, Tyrion tried to be on his best behavior around her. Half the Northmen would be happy to cut him down, regardless of Sansa's wishes; the last thing he needed was to add Brienne to that list.

Tyrion had mostly kept to Daenerys's side of the encampment since they'd made camp at Castle Black; he remembered well the hostility the Northmen and Riverlanders had shown him when Catelyn Stark had taken him hostage, and that was before Ned, Robb, and Catelyn were killed at his family's behest. Needless to say, he felt leery of the looks the Northmen gave him, even as he walked beside his lady wife and their queen under her protection.

The looks intensified when Sansa had them stop in the medical tents just inside the walls of Castle Black. _Sansa's good at this_ , Tyrion noted as she helped wipe the sweaty brows of fevered soldiers missing limbs, soldiers maimed, bloodied, cut, frostbit. He remembered Daenerys doing the same, paying kind attentions to the wounded after the battle for Meereen. But with Sansa, it was different. Sansa took the time to ask them where they were from, what family they had, to describe when she met their liege lord growing up in Winterfell. Some of the wounded were warriors she knew personally, second and third sons of lesser lords who had regularly come to Winterfell to pay respects and celebrate happy occasions with the Stark family. Daenerys might be a lovable queen once given the chance to prove herself to Westeros, but Sansa was truly loved. Even hostile glances at Tyrion softened to questioning or curiosity as they shifted to Sansa.

Edging away from her as she rounded the troops, Tyrion found himself standing by the bed of a young Riverlands man, unconscious to the world. Around his neck was an icy black hand print. Tyrion's brow furrowed as he considered him.

"White Walker got hold of him," Podrick said quietly. "Lad was out beyond the wall on patrol when they were ambushed. He and his mate were the only two to return." Podrick nodded at a young man missing an arm across the tent near Sansa. "Hasn't woken up since he got here. Maester's not hopeful, but is doing the best he can to keep him alive."

"You knew him?" Tyrion asked.

Podrick nodded. "He used to take shifts guarding outside Sansa's tent. Not a great cyvasse player, but he was learning. Helped pass the time in the cold, anyway." He frowned, and looked away to Sansa. Tyrion, curious, reached out to the man's neck. Before even touching the skin, he could feel its cool. Black, hardened, and cold as ice. If that cold sunk deeper than the flesh, then Tyrion could only imagine how difficult it was for him to breathe. Even now, Tyrion could hear a faint whistle as his chest rose minutely, all the air he could muster into his lungs. He wouldn't last much longer, Tyrion was sure.

After Sansa had paid respects and tended to the wounded, they left, her next order of business to visit the Wildlings, their camp set off to the west of Castle Black a bit away from the others. When Brienne heard that they were to visit the Wildlings, she blanched, and Tyrion noted the reaction. "My lady, your brother asked if I might join him at Castle Black sometime this afternoon to help train the new recruits. If I may have your leave?"

Sansa smirked knowingly, then nodded. "Tell my brother I'll see him this afternoon," she called after Brienne as the Lady Knight was already retreating back to the stronghold.

"The Wildlings unnerve her, I take it?" Tyrion guessed as he, Sansa, and Podrick continued on toward the encampment of tents made of furs and skins and sticks.

"Only one of them," Sansa replied, but Tyrion didn't inquire further.

As they entered the camp, young Wildling children clamored around Sansa, calling out her name rather than her title or address. The familiarity surprised him until he recalled that Wildlings don't bow or kneel, especially not to Southron kings and queens. Sansa knelt and handed out lemon sweets she'd packed in the pockets of her cloak. Some thanked her, but most didn't. To be fair, though, Tyrion suspected quite a few didn't even speak the common tongue, but rather their tribal languages, so he could hardly fault them for that.

In the camp, they were surrounded by tents made of skins, and the crowd of children followed them all the way through until a large Wildling man with red hair and beard chased them off with a few strong words and threats.

"Ah, my fiery beauty," he greeted Sansa, and Tyrion felt his eyebrows raising. Familiarly, he picked Sansa up in a bear hug; Sansa just shook her head and laughed in the man's arms. As tall as she was to him, he often forgot just how slight she was in the arms of a normal sized man, and jealousy flared up in his chest, a feeling that was all too familiar to him.

He released her, and she smacked him on the arm before composing herself again. "Watch yourself, Tormund, or I'll tell Jon you're flirting with me."

He raised his hands defensively and backed away with a chuckle. "Be kind, little wolf queen. Us folks kissed by fire should stick together is all." Then, his attention shifted to Tyrion. "Though it seems you've already been stolen away."

"Stolen away?" Technically it was true, given that Sansa was a hostage when his family married her to him, but that a total stranger would say it so glibly rubbed Tyrion the wrong way.

Sansa seemed to understand the insult and waved away his indignation. "It's a phrase of the Free Folk referring to how men will steal their women from villages to take to wife. Though Tormund gets cross with me when I imply it refers to something so soft as stealing a woman's heart," she said with a smile and a twinkle in her eye at the man.

"Bah!" was Tormund's reply, and he turned around and gestured for them to follow him into a large tent built of bones, branches, and furs. Podrick followed along silently, but with a smile; Tyrion guessed this was Sansa's normal repartee with Tormund.

"Lady Brienne is elsewhere, I take it?" Tormund asked.

"Yes, Jon needed her at Castle Black."

Tormund made a sound like a growl. "Jon keeps me from stealing you away, now he keeps Brienne from me. That wolfy bastard," he said fondly, and Sansa chuckled.

"I don't think you have a rival in him, if it's any consolation."

"Mmm... Rabbit?" he asked, changing the subject as he gestured to the set of hares on a spit over a fire in the middle of the tent.

"Please," Sansa answered, to his surprise, and she took a seat by the fire. Tormund offered her a plate and cut off half a rabbit for her, then did the same for Tyrion as he sat by his wife.

It was a side to Sansa he hadn't seen before; she was always so proper, and yet here she was matching barbs with a Wildling, eating rabbit with her fingers while sitting on nothing more than furs. There was a kinship between them that he was missing, some common ground from the blood of the First Men that they both shared that Tyrion didn't quite understand, but he found it oddly familiar to times he'd sat in with Daenerys speaking with the Dothraki. With a smile, he leaned back on his bolster and ate his rabbit as he listened to Sansa and Tormund.

"Tormund, please, allow the women and children staying behind to go to Winterfell. There's nothing left for them here at the Wall, and they could be better cared for and of more use in Winterfell."

"It's not my call. They don't trust you Southrons. They only come south of the Wall because of the icy bastards on the other side of it. I don't rule them, I only lead."

"I know that, but..." Sansa sighed, frustrated. "Help me convince them, then. Help me earn their trust, that they'll be safe in Winterfell, that I won't try to rule them, or make them do anything they don't want." She shot a glance at Tyrion. "You know the legends as well as I do. No matter how far north the expedition goes, the battle will come back to the Wall, and if it falls, they'd be much safer in Winterfell than here with no wall to defend them."

Sansa leaned forward and put her hand on Tormund's and stared him in the eye. "The past years have seen far too many innocent men, women, and children slaughtered. I would not have the blood of the last of the Free Folk gone when it could be saved. My House has been here for eight thousand years, and you have no idea how it feels to be the last of my name, of my blood. The fear of being the one who failed and extinguished all of that heritage and history to hand it over to another conquering name. I would not have that for your people, Tormund."

Tyrion shifted uncomfortably, but neither Tormund nor Sansa paid him mind. He wasn't the one who had made the decisions to kill Sansa's family; it had been his father, his nephew who had done that. But Tyrion was still caught off guard with how easily Sansa now referenced his family's role in the death of hers. He didn't know if it was easier for Sansa to talk about now after time had passed, or now that she was no longer his family's prisoner, or a bit of both, but he was still so used to the meek child bride he'd known in King's Landing who swore fealty to the crown and to House Lannister with every other breath that he'd never imagined she would speak so openly, without holding back, with him and others. She never said it with blame or hatred toward him, just as fact, but it was still disconcerting.

"I'll see what I can do. But only if you promise to come drink with us before we leave for north of the Wall." He winked at her, and Tyrion started to frown, but Sansa's reaction caught him off guard; she leaned back from Tormund, and shifted toward Tyrion, taking his hand in hers to lay them in her lap.

"My husband and I would be glad to join you, and my brother as well. I'm sure we'd all make for wonderful company."

"Alright. But only if Brienne comes, too." He turned to Tyrion then and added in a hushed tone, "I can't count how many times I've climbed that crow Wall, but Brienne's a woman I'd like to climb." Tyrion suppressed a grin as Sansa rolled her eyes. A smile settled onto Tormund's face that left Tyrion in little doubt of why Brienne had begged off before they had made for the Wildling camp. He leaned back and took a swig from a skin. "But then again you've got Sansa here, doubt a man like you needs much more than that."

"I doubt any man needs much more than her," Tyrion quipped, earning a blush from Sansa and a chortle from Tormund.

After one more pause outside the tent to give candies to the children who had missed Sansa the first time, and a few who snuck back for seconds, Tyrion, Sansa, and Podrick left for Castle Black.

When they walked through the gates, Jon was up on the walkway looking down at the new recruits practicing in the yard. His face was intense. Sansa led them to stand next to him, and not until she rested her head on his shoulder did he notice them. He greeted her with a smile, and put an arm around her shoulders, though his brow was still drawn as his gaze remained on the recruits.

"How are you today?" he asked.

"We visited the wounded and the Wildling camp, then had lunch with Tormund. How are you?"

"They're not ready," he answered with a frown.

"What do you need? I have another shipment of dragonglass coming through White Harbor within the next moon, and I can get more steel from Winterfell within a fortnight," Sansa offered. "Whatever you need, it's yours."

"More time," was Jon's answer, and Sansa frowned.

"I can't give you that."

Jon looked at her and gave her a grim smile before kissing her on the brow. He looked at Tyrion, and the corner of his mouth pulled up in greeting, but otherwise he returned his attentions to the men in the yard.

Lord Commander Tollett emerged from his chambers then and joined them. "Jon, my lord, Your Grace," he greeted them all.

"Lord Commander," Tyrion returned. He was certainly a different man from Mormont, but he had the same gaunt, wearied look that Mormont wore when Tyrion was last at Castle Black all those years ago.

"Your Grace, could I have a word?"

"About the dragonglass?" Sansa guessed.

Edd nodded, and Sansa put her hand on Tyrion's shoulder and gave him a smile before pulling away from him and Jon and leaving with Edd.

Tyrion put his hands on the railing and stood next to Jon. Despite their previous friendship, they hadn't spoken alone since Tyrion had come to the Wall. After everything that had passed between their families since then, the tense silence that stood between them was hardly a surprise.

"Bastard," Tyrion greeted.

"Dwarf."

A moment passed before they both let out a chuckle.

"You've done well for yourself since I last saw you here," Tyrion said.

"Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, now commander of the Northern armies for my sister. Not bad, I suppose. You're Hand to the Queen and will be Lord of Casterly Rock. You've done well, too, Lannister."

Tyrion cocked his head to the side. "Go ahead and say it. I know you want to."

Jon looked down at him, and Tyrion met his gaze. "Sansa's been through enough. If you hurt my sister in any way, I will kill you."

Tyrion nodded. "I know. Anything else?"

Jon shook his head. "I tried talking Sansa out of it, but she knows her mind. Not much more for me to say."

"Alright then." Tyrion moved over a step closer to Jon to talk more easily. "Are they truly that unprepared?" He asked, nodding toward the yard.

"Just look at them. They're almost as bad as Pip and Edd and Grenn were when I first came to the wall. And you remember how well that went. Imagine that against a White Walker."

Tyrion tilted his head to the side. "Any chance you can leave them here on the Wall?"

"We need them. We barely have enough men to go North as it is, even with the Targaryen army. And they're men of the Night's Watch. They need to go North. It's their sworn duty. Sansa's already made it clear she can't ask what few soldiers of her Northern bannermen that remain to go North of the Wall if the Night's Watch won't even go."

"It's Sansa's choice?"

"Sansa and Edd, yes." Jon looked at him then. "You really think I have much say in all this? I come up with strategy, but as for who marches where, that's Sansa's domain." Jon gave her a sigh. "I love her, she's my sister. But she's more and more like her mother every day. She doesn't say it to be cruel like Lady Catelyn did, but Sansa's quick to remind me that I'm only a bastard, and not a Stark, not truly, anyway. And she reminds others."

"You're a threat to her claim, to Rickon's. Surely it's not a surprise to you," Tyrion leveled.

"No. I just wish she'd trust me more, that I don't want anything. Seven Hells, Lannister, she's giving me the Dreadfort. I never asked for that. What more could I want?"

Tyrion nodded with a smirk. "Sansa was pleased with herself for coming up with that."

Jon frowned. "For everything we've been through, Sansa still thinks we'll all get through this unscathed." His shoulders hunched as he leaned forward, his grip tight on the railing. "She's only seen the Wights, and always been far away when they attack. She's never been up close to it, seen the White Walkers. So few of us here have. We have a plan, but..." He shook his head. "I honestly wish she were in Winterfell. Or better still, across the Narrow Sea. Her and Rickon."

"You don't think we'll be able to defeat them?"

Jon shrugged. "Before Daenerys came, no. Absolutely not. Even now, I'm hesitant. When we took Winterfell back from Ramsay Bolton, I lead the army of Northmen on the field of battle. We almost lost. Then Baelish finally ordered the Knights of the Vale in to clear the field. Sansa and I never trusted him after that, after he held his men back so long after swearing his help. We had to keep them back so that Ramsay wouldn't know they were there, but even so, we lost almost all our men that day."

"You think Baelish was trying to weaken the Northern forces even after retaking Winterfell?"

"To make himself invaluable to Sansa? Yeah, I do. And so did she. There's a reason he's not here anymore. After all the tricks your sister and family played in King's Landing, how Frey and Bolton betrayed our brother, Sansa won't let anyone get between us again." Jon looked at him. "You should probably take that as a warning."

"I've no plans to keep Sansa from her family, or interfere with Winterfell. I should be safe."

A door creaked open behind them and they heard footfalls approaching, and both turned round to see Sansa and Edd returning to them.

"Shall we continue on to the Dothraki camp before the day wears on?" Sansa asked, donning her gloves.

"Of course." Tyrion offered her his elbow, and her fingertips curled around his upper arm. It wasn't a particularly intimate gesture, but Tyrion did enjoy having his wife on his arm. He nodded his farewells to Jon and Edd, and they were on their way to the southeast of the camp.

"How was your meeting with the Lord Commander?" Tyrion asked as he, Sansa, and Podrick made their way through the Northern camp.

"It was alright. We mostly discussed supplies—food, garments, dragonglass, armor, shelters, horses and livestock to go North. I'm not too worried about the Night's Watch. Edd's done a good job of making sure that they can keep their own, but I'd rather offer help when it's not needed than be thought stingy."

Sansa took a deep breath and reached her other hand over to clasp both to his arm. She gave a small smile and a sigh, and Tyrion felt the corner of his mouth twitch as well.

"What's Winter like in the South?" she asked. "The past few years have been my first proper Winter since I was young, and it's just as Father always told me it would be. Is it like this in the South?"

"No, nothing like this, thank the gods," Tyrion added, eliciting a laugh from Sansa. "It snows, but not as much. And in the West, at least, the winds from the Sunset Sea can be brutal, but it's nowhere near as cold as this, and not as constant. We don't have the ice that you do here, either."

"That must be pretty, though, seeing snow on the beach. I imagine it would be lovely."

"You imagine quite a lot." Tyrion smiled at her. "It is quite surreal when it snows at low tide, and as the tide comes in, it slowly melts and washes the snow out to sea. Jaime and I used to make the biggest messes, going out and playing in the sand and snow when it stormed when I was young."

Sansa smiled at the image. "I imagine that must have been quite fun as a child."

"Oh, it was. Can't say the servants were too happy about the messes we tracked in after that, but it was fun, nonetheless."

"You and I should do that, when we take Casterly Rock. We should build sand and snow castles right next to each other."

Tyrion looked at her shrewdly. "Snow for Winterfell, and sand for Casterly Rock."

She cocked her head. "It would be a bit odd the other way around, don't you think?"

He chuckled at her, but then saw her looking elsewhere. He followed her gaze and found Brienne of Tarth returning to them.

"Your Grace," she greeted, bowing to Sansa. "My lord. Ser Podrick."

"Lady Brienne," Tyrion said.

"We're going to the Dothraki camp. My lord husband needs to make some inquiries on their readiness. Would you care to join us?"

"As my queen commands," she answered with a bow of the head and a smile.

"Tormund mentioned you," Sansa said nonchalantly, and Tyrion coughed to hide a laugh.

"Did he?" Brienne said tersely.

"Hmm. I also mentioned that we'd have to have drinks together before he leaves north of the Wall. You'd be very welcome company."

"If it please Your Grace." Brienne looked like she quite regretted taking vows to Sansa in that moment as she blushed as red as Sansa's hair.

Finally, they reached Daenerys's camp. Tyrion's first stop was to meet Missandei to translate for him.

"I don't believe you've been properly introduced," Tyrion said, remembering his courtesies. "Sansa, this is Missandei, handmaiden, scribe, and translator to Queen Daenerys. Missandei, this is Sansa Stark of House Lannister, Queen of the North and Regent of Winterfell."

Missandei bowed her head. "Your Grace."

"Missandei," Sansa greeted. "It's a pleasure to properly make your acquaintance."

The two young women were of an age, and they chatted easily, taking the lead while Tyrion walked beside Podrick as they made their way through the camp, Brienne hovering at the rear.

"Sansa really can speak to anyone," Tyrion commented to Podrick. Looking between the two—Sansa, a highborn lady turned queen; Missandei, a lowborn girl born a slave, now a handmaiden—he could scarce call to mind two young women with more different lives, and yet Sansa found grounds for conversation all the same.

Podrick shrugged. "She always spoke easily to me in King's Landing when I was just a squire. She's always had that gift."

"I suppose she has." Tyrion had almost forgotten just how much Podrick used to blush around her. He'd blush now and again when she complimented him, but otherwise, he seemed at ease around her now. The lad actually seemed at ease around most of the women around camp, Tyrion had noticed. _Oh, to be a handsome young knight._ A flash of envy swept through him, just as it always had when he'd thought of Jaime, or Lancel, or any other young man who had the chance that he never had, but it passed as Sansa fell back and took his arm with a smile.

"You're in a cheerful mood today," he said, and her smile widened.

"It's been a lovely day," she said simply.

Tyrion turned around at a giggle, and noticed Dothraki children following them. Sansa turned to look as well, and the children broke into a mass of giggling and whispering that Tyrion didn't understand.

"I think I have a few candies left," Sansa muttered, reaching into her cloak and pulling out the last of the wrapped sweets. She knelt and held them out to the children who came near them, but the children paid the sweets no mind. Instead, they started to touch her hair.

"They've never seen hair your color before," Missandei said with a smile. With a sweet laugh, Sansa dipped her head, inviting some of the more timid children to come satisfy their curiosities as well.

"Is there anything that I can help provide the Dothraki for Winter?" Sansa asked him, and Tyrion noticed her gaze fall upon several children that were shivering and a bit underdressed.

"Not for the children. Once they're settled at Winter Town, they'll be fine. Before going north of the Wall, the men could use some more warm clothing, if you can spare it."

Sansa nodded. "As distasteful as it may seem, I had the boots, armor, and overcoats stripped from the bodies of the slain when I retook Winterfell from the Boltons before we burned their bodies. I'll have the bulk of it sent here for the Dothraki and Unsullied to use as needed."

"I don't think the Dothraki will mind a bit of bloodstain," Tyrion quipped, and Sansa and Missandei repressed smiles.

The children stayed around Sansa, but their parents finally came to see where they'd gone. With Missandei as translator, Tyrion asked what they needed, whether their rations sufficed, would they be ready to continue on to Winter Town when the time came. Satisfied by the answers he received through Missandei from hunters, gatherers, craftsmen, and healers, he considered his job for the day done.

Missandei took her leave then, and Sansa and Tyrion were left with the children, still curiously playing with Sansa's hair, but also showing curiosity about him. He was glad for the cold that had already brought a ruddy hue to his face, else his embarrassment would have shown through more. He knew they didn't mean anything by it, but being treated as a curiosity still irked him.

Sansa let out a giggle as one little girl gave her a hug and held her braided hair up to Sansa's to compare. It reminded him so much of how Cersei was with Myrcella when she was young. His sister's one redeeming quality: she loved her children. Without thinking, Tyrion commented, "You'll be a good mother."

Sansa looked at him with eyebrows raised, and he realized how his remark had come off. "I, uh, I didn't mean right away, of course," he said, stumbling over himself. Tyrion cursed himself and shook his head, looking away from her, the cold sapping his wits to get himself out of that statement.

"I hope I will," Sansa said, and he looked back to her where she was smiling. "One day," she added, and Tyrion smirked at her.

Sansa stood then, and they continued their walk through Daenerys's camp. "For what it's worth," she said. "I think you'll make a good father. Far better than yours was, at any rate." She didn't look at him as she walked beside him, her hand curled round his arm, but her words warmed him to the core. He wasn't sure what made her think that—his habits of drinking, gambling, whoring, and murdering probably had little do with it—but whatever she saw in him, he was glad of it.


	11. Jon I: Light in Her Eyes

**_Been super busy with life and work lately, so sorry it was so slow, and even more sorry it's so short; this is my first Jon chapter, and I had a much harder time writing from his POV than from Sansa or Tyrion's, so I decided shorter would be better than dragged out. Anyway, thing's are going to start picking up in the action department, so enjoy!_**

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Chapter 11

 _Jon I: Light in her Eyes_

The smell of the spices of Pentos, Volantis, and Meereen pervaded the air, and Jon knew he'd never smelled anything so exotic in his whole life. Dinner that night was at Daenerys Targaryen's behest, and so he, Edd, Lord Royce, Robert Arryn, Davos Seaworth, Lord Varys, Tyrion, Sansa, Yara Greyjoy, and Daenerys herself sat round a table in the middle of her tent, sharing Dornish wines that Sansa had offered for the occasion, spiced meats that were hotter than anything he'd tasted, exotic fruits and vegetables from across the Narrow Sea, and fresh-baked breads still hot from the ovens. Jon was used to the luxuries that Sansa enjoyed as Queen; they were the same they'd both grown up with in Winterfell, if maybe a bit more extravagant. But the colored silks, dyed horse hides, bright patterned rugs layered under fur pelts strewn all over the floor, it was everything he'd imagined nobility from Essos would have from all the stories he'd read as a boy.

"Thank you," he said to the Queen's handmaiden as she refilled his and Daenerys's cups of wine, wishing he could remember her name.

"So, Jon Snow, Lord Commander Tollett tells me you used to be Lord Commander before you died?" Daenerys asked him, picking up her cup and staring at him over the rim. "That must be an interesting story."

"Not particularly, I don't think," Jon said, not eager to be reminded of his chest full of scars and the men who had given them to him. "There was a mutiny. The Red Woman brought me back. I hear the priestesses are much more common in Essos than here."

"They are, yes. But even so, resurrection from the dead is no small thing." Her violet eyes stared into him, unnerving him. Whenever he'd seen her face off with Sansa, there was usually a guarded look to her, but he saw none of that now. _Probably just the wine_ , Jon thought, noting how many cups they'd all had since gathering for dinner. No, rather than guardedness, there was light in her eyes, amplified by the flickering of the candelabras all around them.

 _Gods she's beautiful,_ Jon couldn't help but think, but he shook the thought from his head. She was a queen, and he was a bastard. Fair enough that he would be legitimized and lord of the Dreadfort after this was all done if Sansa got her way, but he would always be bastard-born with a nameless mother.

He realized how long he'd gone without responding to her and merely shook his head as modestly as he could. "If you say so, Your Grace."

"If I say so..." Daenerys smirked at him as she echoed his words, and Jon didn't know quite what to do, so he turned his attentions back to his food.

"Your Grace," Yara Greyjoy said, turning Daenerys's attention away from Jon. "Surely I've told you of the drowned men, the priests of the Drowned God worshipped on the Iron Isles? Those who choose to serve the Drowned God are drowned properly, then revived to be reborn as the drowned men." She took a drink of ale and looked at Jon before returning her piercing gray gaze to Daenerys. "You'll see no such devotion to risk their lives to become servants to their supposed gods in the other faiths."

"There are no servants of the faith to the old gods. Nothing to come between a man and his prayer," Jon said. Daenerys looked back at him, and Yara glared at him. "Not that I'm particularly devout or anything." Jon focused on Daenerys. "Doesn't seem a good idea at the moment to go out past the wall just to have a pray at the weirwood tree."

Daenerys smiled, and Jon was relieved his joke had come off well. "So, Jon Snow, I've heard you're one of the greatest fighters the North has ever seen."

Jon shrugged and looked away, embarrassed. "Whoever told you that must have a low opinion of Northern warriors."

Daenerys's laugh tinkled like crystal, and Jon felt a blush rising to his cheeks. In that moment, she reminded him of Ygritte, of his wildling lover, and he realized she was just as fierce and proud and stubborn and vibrant as Ygritte had ever been. He shook his head to scatter the thought to the winds blowing outside the tent and took a long draught of the wine in front of him. To Daenerys's left, Yara turned away from Jon and the dragon queen and began speaking in hushed tones to his sister. He couldn't make out what was said, but a blush accompanied by confusion came over Sansa's face, and Tyrion chuckled over the rim of his glass of wine, looking anywhere but his wife.

"No, I have quite a high opinion of Northern warriors, as a matter of fact," Daenerys told him, leaning back in her seat and regarding him over her glass of wine. Taking her lead, Jon leaned back in his seat as well. Away from the table, it felt like they were on their own. He looked across the table at Varys, who was watching Daenerys and him intently until Jon returned the gaze, and Varys turned his attention to Davos. On Varys's other side, Tyrion continued to drink in silent amusement as Sansa looked more and more confused with a deepening blush. Jon made a note to ask Tyrion later just what Yara Greyjoy was saying that was so amusing to him and flustering for her. To his left, Edd was in conversation with Lord Royce over the transition of the Wall from the Night's Watch to the Knights of the Vale, though Edd was fighting for silence with Robert Arryn, who refused to be left out of the conversation. Robert half-shouted to turn Lord Royce's attentions back towards him, and Jon shook his head at the insolence. Royce shot a look of reproach at Jon before mollifying Robert and returning to conversation with Edd.

"Before I sent him away, one of my most trusted advisors was Ser Jorah Mormont." A look of pain crossed her eyes, but she hid it quickly.

"His father was a great man. I can't speak for Ser Jorah, though." Jon pressed together his lips, deciding it more prudent not to bring up the fact that he knew of the man's exile.

"I'm well aware he tried to sell men to slavers, if that's what that look is for, Jon Snow." Jon gave her a smirk and a nod. "He also spied on me to Robert Baratheon, and yet he loved me and served me loyally. I forgave him."

"Not many would, after those charges."

"No," she agreed. "But as he often told me, I have a gentle heart. Lord Tyrion considers it a weakness and a strength." She gave her Hand a brief glance and smirk before turning back to Jon.

"It is. My sister is much the same." He gazed at Sansa, who was giving a pointed to look to Tyrion, who was momentarily deeply engaged in Lord Varys and Lord Davos's conversation, before Jon returned his attention to Daenerys. "A gentle heart is a good thing, so long as it's tempered with strength and the knowledge when to punish rather than forgive and show mercy." He was quoting Sansa, a part of her answer to him when he'd asked her why she'd granted pardons to Bolton's pledged households, when they'd stood by Bolton rather than joining Jon and Sansa when they'd marched to retake Winterfell.

"And do you have a gentle heart?" she asked him with a coy smile, and Jon felt a blush come to his cheeks.

He thought of Ygritte, of how soft and gentle she'd made him feel in comparison to all the other Free Folk. Of how he fondly regarded the Free Folk even among the Night's Watch, and how it had got him killed. "I can. I used to. Not so sure anymore. But it's not really my place to have a gentle heart, either."

"Well, I think I'd like to decide that for myself," she said, and Jon found himself wondering whether he'd heard correctly.

He was about to reply when a horn blast sounded from the Wall. His eyes snapped to Sansa, and they waited with bated breath to see whether it was Rangers coming back or White Walkers. Another blast, and Jon, Edd, Davos, and Sansa rose and scrambled for their cloaks in a rush to ride to the Wall. But then… silence. No third blast.

"Wildlings?" Sansa questioned, looking to Jon, and he shook his head.

"I didn't think there were any left. None who would come to Castle Black to pass through, anyway. Maybe Shadow Tower or Eastwatch or the other outlying strongholds, but not Castle Black."

"Best go check it out all the same," Edd suggested, and Jon nodded his agreement.

He turned to find Daenerys nervous in her seat, but Jon didn't have time to assuage her. "We'll sort this out, Your Grace." He nodded a goodbye and left, Sansa, Edd, and Davos quick on his heels to saddle up.

When they reached the Wall, the caged lift was just opening at the base, and a lad of Jon's age, maybe a little older, stepped out in a rush. He spotted Edd and started sputtering. "Wildlings. We think it's Wildlings, anyway. Too slow to be White Walkers, and they look weak. Looks like two of them, but we can't be sure. It's hard to make out."

Edd nodded. "Scouts see anything moving in the trees, following them?"

"Nothing, Lord Commander. We thought it might be a trap, too, to lure us out, but we can't see anything. It's a full moon and clear sky, too. If there were something, we'd see it, but it's just them."

"I'll lead a party," Jon offered, and Edd nodded his approval. Jon looked to Davos, then saw Tormund and Lord Royce had joined them. "You two want to come?"

"I'll follow you, Snow."

Lord Royce merely nodded his assent before remounting the horse he'd ridden. The four of them all on horseback, the gate clanked open, and they entered the tunnel. They waited for the middle and far gates before, finally, they reached the other side.

The man hadn't lied; the night sky was clear as glass, and the moon shone like the sun, showing the Wildling as if in daylight, though he saw only one where the lookout had said there were two. "Keep a sharp eye out for the second one," Jon told Davos, and the man bowed his head.

Jon kept one hand on his reins, and his other on the hilt of the knife of dragonglass that was sheathed at the side of his saddle. Slowly, they rode up on the Wildling, who continued toward the Wall. Surely he saw them by now, he was walking right toward them with a slow lumber, but he didn't call out or make any move or slow. He was small, maybe even a child for all Jon could tell. Covered in furs, but still small.

"Who's there?" Jon called out, when they were within distance of being heard over the howling winds.

A face looked up at him where it had been bowed against the winds, and Jon saw it was a woman, petite with a slender face surrounded by long, unkempt brown hair scattered out of a loose braid by the wind.

She looked vaguely familiar, but Jon couldn't take any chances, even if she was a Wildling he'd met and known while north of the Wall. "Do you speak the common tongue?"

With a thud and a puff of snow, she dropped something heavy, and Jon realized she'd been pulling a cart of some kind behind her, dragging it through the snow. Without saying a word, she closed her eyes and collapsed forward onto her knees, then onto her side.

Jon dismounted and grabbed his knife, tucking it into his belt before he approached her. Davos shadowed him, sword in hand.

"Check her," Jon ordered Davos, and he went to see what she'd been dragging.

"Jon?" a voice called out, and Jon's breath was whipped from his lungs as he recognized that voice for certain.

"Bran?" He moved to the side of the cart, and sure enough, there was his little brother, seven years older than when he'd last seen him. He was a young man now, and no longer a boy, but there's was no mistaking his brother.

"Is Meera alright?"

Jon looked to the girl, where Davos had knelt by her head and laid down his sword, judging her no threat.

"She's out cold, it seems."

"We have to get behind the Wall," Bran said. "They're coming."

"Who's coming?" he asked, though Jon knew the answer already.

"The White Walkers. The dead are coming."


End file.
